The Best British Fantasy 2014 Page 3

  JESS HYSLOP

  Triolet

  I

  An elderly lady lives at the end of our street. She has hair puffed out like a small white cloud and an air of dwindled grace. She wears bangles round her skinny wrists, floral skirts that reach to her ankles, shoes with Velcro fastenings. Her name is Mrs Entwistle. She grows poems.

  Mrs Entwistle’s poems sprout from flowerpots and vases, ice cream tubs and pencil pots, watering cans and china teacups. They spill from window boxes and climb crooked trellises, spreading over red brick and plastic drainpipe. Their leaves can be large or small, rubbery or velvety, dark or light. Some bloom in violent bursts of magenta and azure, some in delicate constellations of white stars, and some have drooping, elongated heads that toll their verses like bells.

  Lisa and I walk past Mrs Entwistle’s house every weekday morning on our way to work. It sits at the corner where we part, I heading left to the train station, Lisa turning right to the bus stop. Each morning we admire the poems blossoming in the front garden, and sometimes Lisa puts out a hand to touch the daisy-like flower that bobs, inviting, over the low brick wall. At her touch the plant perks up on its stalk, as though clearing its throat. Then it recites, in the tones of a jaunty schoolboy:

  Welcome, footsore traveller,

  Welcome to my door.

  Come sit and have a cuppa

  Before you have to leave once more.

  But if you have to rush along,

  I wish you a good day.

  Perhaps when you’re less busy

  You’ll find time to come my way.

  The ditty always makes Lisa laugh, and it puts a smile on my face too. We go to work with lighter steps, and promise each other that we really will pay a visit to Mrs Entwistle soon.

  II

  Sometimes – rarely – Mrs Entwistle gives away her poems. Sarah Ealing, who we know through Bob and Carol, has one – an elegant perennial with curling leaves and a single violet bloom. Sarah claims to have had the poem for seven years now, and that it needs nothing but a bit of watering every other day and it’s as healthy and happy as ever. I ask to hear it, one time when we’re over there, but she stays my hand before I can touch the leaves.

  ‘It’s private,’ she tells me, and blushes.

  Lisa exclaims about it as we walk home. ‘That blush!’ she says. ‘What do you think it’s about, her poem?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say.

  ‘Well, it’s got to be sex, hasn’t it?’ says Lisa. ‘I bet it is. Gosh. And she always seems so, you know, staid.’

  ‘Staid?’

  Lisa looks up at me. ‘You know what I mean. Sarah’s never been married, Carol said. And she’s as old as we are.’

  I shrug. ‘She’s always seemed nice to me. Maybe she’s just had bad luck. And anyway, who’re you calling old?

  Lisa hooks her arm through mine. ‘I’m jealous,’ she admits. ‘I want a secret poem.’

  ‘Maybe we should call on Mrs Entwistle then.’

  ‘This weekend,’ says Lisa, firmly.

  But that Friday my father has a fall and breaks his hip, and we have to go out of town to visit him and look after mum, and we forget all about our visit to the old lady at the end of the street.

  III

  It’s two months later, in mid May, when Mrs Entwistle hails us from her living room window. Lisa and I have just said our morning goodbyes and are about to part ways when the old woman’s voice drifts out across her front garden.

  ‘Good morning, Mr and Mrs Lewis!’ she says, and her face goes all over wrinkles as she smiles. ‘Would you care for a quick cup of tea? I have something for you.’

  We pause, I with my briefcase in hand, Lisa with her folder tucked under her arm.

  ‘Morning, Mrs Entwistle,’ I say, then hesitate. ‘I’m afraid we’ll be late for work.’

  Lisa gives me a don’t-spoil-this look. ‘Perhaps we can step in for a minute,’ she says.

  I give her a no-we-can’t look, and she shoots back a well-I’m-going-to look.

  ‘Yes, in fact, that would be lovely,’ Lisa says, loudly for my benefit. And she unlatches Mrs Entwistle’s front gate and goes up the path, dodging the enthusiastic flora that burgeons on either side.

  ‘Wonderful!’ says Mrs Entwistle, and disappears from the window.

  I dither on the pavement. Lisa looks back at me from among the flowers. ‘Oh, come on, Jim.’

  ‘But the office – ’ I say.

  ‘A poem, Jim!’ says Lisa. ‘A poem, maybe. Just for us.’

  I remember that visit to Sarah Ealing, picturing the flush that rose in her cheeks, the secret blooming behind her eyes.

  I sigh. ‘All right, then. One cup of tea.’

  Lisa holds out her hand, and I take it as I join her outside Mrs Entwistle’s door. But I brush against something as I do so, and when I look behind I see a plant springing back into place. It’s an unruly bush with dark, serrated leaves, amongst which heavy scarlet flowers lurk and peep. The contact with my skin wakes the poem, and the bush begins to speak.

  The Jackdaw Prince, old as the hills,

  Though newer than the moon, some say;

  His realm of air, hung above the world,

  In a cradle of storms. All black feathers he,

  And pinprick eyes. The Cat King will not catch him.

  Mrs Entwistle opens the door. She smiles at us, then purses her lips at the bush as it continues with its poem. Its voice is low and scratchy.

  The Prince swoops over earth; his wings

  Bring fright, but they delight the Turtle’s daughter,

  Who swims beneath the void. The Cat King yawns . . .

  ‘No discipline, that one,’ says Mrs Entwistle. ‘I keep cutting it back, and cutting it back, but no! It creeps right out again.’

  The plant is giving me the creeps too. Its poem is odd, the rhythm jarring, the imagery scatterbrain and strange.

  Mrs Entwistle notices me eyeing it. ‘Oh, don’t bother about it, dear,’ she says, patting me on the arm with a jangle of bracelets. ‘It’ll drone on all morning. Do come inside.’

  We leave the bush whispering tales of the Jackdaw Prince, and follow Mrs Entwistle into the house. Inside, the place is tidier than I expected. I had pictured plants proliferating in the hallways, jostling for space on every surface, bursting from drawers and trailing down the walls – but in reality the house is neat and clean. There are many poems, yes, but they are lined up evenly on tables and windowsills. Diminutive plants are placed strategically on side tables, whilst the larger ones are pushed into corners out of the way. The wallpaper is pink and yellow and the whole place is very cheery.

  Lisa follows Mrs Entwistle into the living room, where there is a faded three-piece suite that looks as though years of use have moulded it into the form of perfect comfort.

  ‘Do have a seat. I’ll get the tea.’

  ‘Can I give you a hand?’ I ask, but the old woman waves me away.

  I put my briefcase on the floor and Lisa lays her folder on the glass-topped coffee table. We settle together onto the couch.

  ‘Only a few minutes,’ I tell Lisa.

  ‘I know, I know,’ she says reluctantly, and in truth I understand how she feels. The house seems to welcome visitors with the enthusiasm of a favourite aunt, and now that I’m inside I’m loath to leave its hospitable embrace. I feel very cosy sitting there with my wife, waiting for tea.

  There’s a poem on the coffee table, a cascade of blue florets on narrow stalks. I consider touching it, but then I remember the bush in the front garden and I think better of it.

  Mrs Entwistle comes in with the tea things on a plastic tray. ‘It’s so nice you could come in,’ she says as she pours and stirs. ‘I haven’t spoken to you two in such a long time. But I see you in the mornings, sometimes. You seem very happy. I
trust everything’s well?’

  We tell her that yes, we are very happy and that yes, everything is well. I ask after Mrs Entwistle in return, and she says that she is very dull, but tells us instead about her grandson who is just starting university. Then she mentions that she has heard about a man in Japan who also grows poems, and whom she’d very much like to meet one day.

  Lisa seizes her chance. She has been holding in the question the entire time; I can tell by the way she’s turning her teacup in her hands. Now it pops out: ‘You said you had something for us?’

  ‘Ah yes. So I did.’ Mrs Entwistle pushes herself out of the armchair and goes over to the windowsill. Her bangles clack against one another as she chooses a ceramic flowerpot from among the many receptacles that line the sill. When she turns back to us, we see that climbing from the soil inside the pot is a delicate, twisting stem. It curls upwards in a miniature helix, and bluish leaves sprout from it at intervals like tiny steps on a spiral staircase. At the summit of the stem are two flowers. They have small, rounded petals and are a merry yellow.

  Lisa flashes me an excited grin. ‘A poem!’ she exclaims. ‘For us?’

  ‘Exactly, my dear. It sprouted last week, and I knew immediately who it was for.’

  Mrs Entwistle hands the pot to Lisa, who takes it reverently. ‘Look, Jim.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Very pretty.’

  ‘Can we listen?’ asks Lisa.

  ‘Of course.’ Mrs Entwistle sits down again in her armchair and smiles at us. ‘It’s yours.’

  ‘Go on, Jim. Touch it,’ Lisa orders.

  I reach out a finger. It looks very big and unwieldy next to the graceful little plant. Carefully, I touch one of the petals.

  The spiral stem flexes. The leaves twitch. The flowers dance, ever so slightly.

  Two lovers lie together sleeping,

  In their dreams their lives they share.

  Entangled in their secrets’ keeping,

  Two lovers lie together. Sleeping

  Is the world without, none peeping

  On the inner world, the bedroom where

  Two lovers lie, together, sleeping.

  In their dreams, their lives, they share.

  ‘A triolet,’ says Mrs Entwistle. ‘How exquisite.’

  ‘Oh, Jim!’ Lisa breathes. Her eyes are wet.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ I say, and I mean it. The plant’s voice was like water lapping gently on a far-off shore, and its words conjured alluring memories of Lisa and me, together, on our honeymoon in Saint Lucia eight years before.

  I’ve the urge to kiss Lisa right then and there, but she’s still holding the pot and the last thing I want to do is make her drop the poem.

  We don’t go to work that day after all. Once we’ve said our goodbyes and our thank-yous to Mrs Entwistle, we go straight home and take the poem to our bedroom, where we place it safely on top of the chest of drawers. Lisa touches it again and we listen, enraptured by the seductive verse. Then we make love right there in the mid-morning sunlight, and it’s like we’re newlyweds again.

  IV

  Lisa and I listen to the poem almost daily after that. We shiver with delight at the leaping rhymes, and we marvel at the movement of the words, the shifts and pauses that bring new meaning to the repeated lines. Lisa looks up ‘triolet’ on Wikipedia and we agree that it is indeed an exquisite form.

  We show off the poem when Bob and Carol come over for dinner, but when they ask to hear it we shake our heads.

  ‘It’s private,’ we say as one, and Lisa giggles.

  Bob and Carol look a little sour. I make up for it by pouring them both another glass of Merlot.

  ‘I think that was a bit mean of us,’ I say later, when our guests have gone home.

  ‘Hmm. Maybe.’ Lisa is washing up, and her hands pause under the suds. ‘It’s true though, isn’t it? It is private.’

  I slide my arms around her waist. She gives a little start, then laughs. I brush my lips across her hair. It smells of Fructis shampoo, of Bob’s cigarette smoke, of the Bolognese sauce we just had.

  ‘It’s private, all right,’ I murmur. ‘It’s extremely private.’

  She turns and kisses me, and I don’t care that she still has the wet rubber gloves on; I pick her up and carry her upstairs.

  A few months after Mrs Entwistle gives us the poem, I get a promotion at work. Lisa’s thrilled at first. She books a table at The Vine and we toast my success over a shared platter of hors d’oeuvres. But the glow of achievement wears off after a couple of weeks and the downsides start to reveal themselves. The promotion comes with a transfer to another office much further afield, so I’m out early and late home. I don’t catch the train anymore either, so Lisa’s left to walk alone in the mornings past Mrs Entwistle’s house. She tells me that the old lady often leans out of the window and asks after us.

  ‘She says to tell you congratulations,’ says Lisa, as she watches me eat a late supper of cold chicken and salad.

  ‘That’s nice. Tell her I say thank you.’ I should go round and say it myself, of course, but I have even less time now than ever and somehow it always slips my mind.

  I never forget to water the poem though. It sits in our bedroom, under the window, and the flowers are merry and yellow as ever. I am beginning to believe what Sarah Ealing said, about hers having lasted for seven years straight. I hope ours is as hardy.

  V

  I am beginning to suspect that Lisa’s in a mood with me. Work is demanding at present, so I often don’t get home until eight or even nine in the evening. Lisa says hi when I come in the door, asks me about my day, and sympathises about the lateness of my return – but all the while she’s got this look in her eye that says we-really-need-to-have-a-talk.

  I don’t have the energy to start that conversation, but I do apologise. ‘I’m sorry about this, hon. I really am,’ I say. There isn’t really anything I can do, however. Work is work. And as my dad always says, ‘You gotta do your time.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ Lisa says, but I can tell that it isn’t. She doesn’t laugh like she used to when we watch Mock the Week, and she doesn’t touch me at all when we go to bed.

  Then, one evening when I come in, Lisa is sitting watching a wildlife programme. Onscreen, some tanned presenter is washing a baby elephant, which is lying on its side and swishing its tail in contentment. I take off my coat, then come up behind the couch and lean down to kiss Lisa on the top of the head. She whirls, startled, and almost elbows me in the face.

  ‘Jim! I didn’t hear you. Miles away.’

  With the elephants? I want to joke, to bring a smile to her face, but I can’t make the words come out. When I walk into the kitchen my feet feel heavy. I go to the fridge and take out the leftovers Lisa has put by for me. I place the Tupperware on the counter and then I pause, and just lean there for a minute. My head is reeling.

  When I bent to kiss Lisa, her hair smelt of cigarettes.

  Logically, I know there could have been any number of people smoking around Lisa during the day: people at work, in the street, at the bus stop. But the smell had been too familiar. Too familiar by far.

  That night, even though I have to be up at six the next morning, I go to touch the poem sitting on the chest of drawers.

  Lisa stops me. ‘Not tonight, Jim. I’m tired. Okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ I murmur. ‘Okay.’ Then I glare at the yellow flowers as if this is all their fault.

  VI

  Coming home one evening the following week, I find a cigarette butt on our front lawn, lying in the grass under the living room window. It’s small and wet and squished, but I pick it up and hold it between my fingers and look at it for a long time.

  I don’t say anything to Lisa. She doesn’t say much to me either. It’s becoming the way of things. But that night, I creep out of bed and, very slowly, pick up
the poem in its ceramic pot. Then I carry it downstairs and put it on the dining table at the rear of the living room. I pull out a chair and sit in front of the plant. In the darkness, the yellow of the petals palls to grey.

  I touch the curlicue stem, gently, and a voice like a Saint Lucian beach recites:

  Two lovers lie together sleeping,

  In their dreams their lives they share.

  Entangled in their secrets’ keeping,

  Two lovers lie together. Sleeping

  Is the world without, none peeping

  On the inner world, the bedroom where

  Two lovers lie. Together, sleeping.

  In their dreams, their lives they share.

  Maybe it’s just because it’s late, and I’m tired and agitated and heartsore, but the final two lines sound different to how I remember them. I touch the plant again, and again it delivers the poem. I listen hard to the last part.

  Two lovers lie. Together, sleeping.

  In their dreams, their lives they share.

  Where once it prompted an intense wave of satisfaction, the couplet now makes me uneasy, as though there’s some sinister meaning lurking beneath the innocuous words.

  I sit there in the dark and listen to the poem over and over, trying to uncover the secret of those lines.

  Eventually, brain throbbing and eyes aching, I give in. I take the poem back upstairs, then slide back into bed and stare at the ceiling. I think about Lisa and the cigarette butt. Then I think about lying, and sleeping, and dreaming, and sharing.

  VII

  My head is pounding from lack of sleep, but I get up at my normal time of 6am. I dress in my usual work clothes: suit (grey) and tie (navy blue); clean shirt; smart shoes. Lisa stirs under the duvet but does not wake. I do not kiss her goodbye.

  I take my briefcase and coat from the hall and go outside. It’s November, and the morning is clear and cold. The car starts on the third try, and I reverse out of the driveway. I drive round the corner and park the car where it won’t be spotted by Lisa when she heads out for the bus. Then I walk back round to Mrs Entwistle’s house.