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Contents
NICOLA BARKER
Reversed Forecast
and Small Holdings
Reversed Forecast
For Ben Thompson,
who’s always liked a bit of a flutter
At night she breathed through her mouth, which would have been fine, if unerotic, except for the fact that her loose lips and sagging tongue spilled out copious quantities of saliva on to her pillow. Sometimes she woke up in the morning to find that the side of her mouth and chin, as well as portions of her lower cheek, had become damp and chapped from her sloppy expulsions.
She slept on her stomach – her breasts, soft pillows; her face, crushed against the bedclothes, misshapen by sleep, like the face of a pug, a boxer or a pekinese: inelegant but charming.
This morning – a Saturday – too, too early; she slept and she dreamed. In her dream she saw the wings of a large black bird. Some people are frightened by wings, she thought. And feathers. Some people are afraid of moths. The way they flutter. This fear – she didn’t know the word for it – a nameless fear.
One instant the bird was at her shoulder, but the next it was outside her window, holding on to the sill with its strong claws, tapping, tapping.
Christ! she thought, suddenly feeling her body, her face, crashing into consciousness. Something is there at the window.
Ruby turned over and tried to open her eyes, both still gummed up with remnants of liquid eye-liner and mascara. She lifted a warm hand to wipe them clear, but this rapid movement, the whiteness of motion from her bleached hair, her pale skin, made the bird – if indeed it was a bird – fall from the sill, as though shot by an arrow of whiteness, a white lightning. When her eyes could properly focus, all she could see through her tiny bedroom window was a pinkish hue, reflected from wall to wall on the buildings outside – diluted light like a weak pink gin. She sniffed, still thinking of the bird. ‘It was probably only a pigeon,’ she said, calming herself, then she opened her eyes wider, registered the reddish atmosphere outside and muttered, ‘Bugger. It’s going to rain.’
She turned over, relaxed, opened her mouth to inhale, and in a single breath was gone.
It didn’t rain immediately. Several miles away a small dark woman stood alone on an open piece of roof-scape. She was still, rooted, like a tree, but her leaves were feathers, which quivered and vibrated in the slow, smouldering, morning light. The mass of birds on her outstretched arms were shrill, excitable, ecstatic, and called, ‘Sylvia! Sylvia! Sylvia!’
They were heavy, but Sylvia waited, remaining benign and impassive until one, last bird had arrived. It landed on her shoulder, gently brushing her cheek with its great black wing.
‘Hello,’ she said quietly, her voice low and rasping. ‘I could see you coming from miles away. A minute ago you were only a tiny speck on the horizon.’
‘Cor!’ it replied, tipping its head, fixing her with a single, black eye.
She grinned and then dropped her arms, feeling the weight of many birds instantly lift, turning her head, hearing the whirrrr of their wings as she watched them ascend.
At ten-forty-five, Ruby ran across Wardour Street and made her way down towards the main bulk of the Berwick Street fruit market. Here she bought a bag of apples and smiled hello to various stallholders. She was late for work, but didn’t seem concerned. From the far end of the market her peroxide hair was clearly visible amongst the bright cuts and smashes of different fruits – the casualty of colour.
To any incidental observer, standing attentive at the end of the market, watching out for motorbike couriers, the wasps, the fruit skins, Ruby painted a diverting picture.
She’s bold, she’s tall. When the men on the market call her a Big Girl, and they do, she spits out her tongue. Her short, unruly, badly bleached hair initially distracts attention from her large, red lips and black-lined eyes. She never tans, but she does wear tinted make-up to stop her skin from looking too pale, too insipid. She has a long nose which is rounded at the