The Blue E-Book

Maggie Gee

• Herausgeber: Telegram Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

'…the joy of reading Maggie Gee.' – The Observer The people in The Blue, Maggie Gee's first collection of short stories, try and often fail to understand the world, freeing themselves by small acts of courage, love or folly. A journalist decides to convert an evangelist in mid-air; a solicitor gives up his day job to help young artists; a Middle Eastern woman shocks her children as she walks through the heat towards the sea; a man, in a moment of madness, cuts down his neighbour's tree. These subtle fables of everyday life are set against an intricate global backdrop where life is harder for outsiders. Exquisitely written and aerated by comedy, they show human beings who struggle to live good lives. 'Her writing is clear as glass and has marvellous rhythm, fluency and grace.'-- The Observer 'Impressive, captivating and highly recommended.'-- Scotland on Sunday 'Maggie Gee is a superb and pitiless analyser of middle-class angst.'-- The Times 'Maggie Gee is one of our most ambitious and challenging novelists.' -- Sunday Times 'Original and courageous.' -- Doris Lessing 'United by Gee's ability to delineate personalities and adopt voices with small but accurate touches. ... Light sketches, filled with colour.' -- Times Literary Supplement 'Deceptive stylistic simplicity and plain dialogue, complicated emotions are revealed in The Blue ... Each story casts an individual spell.' --Mslexia Magazine

Leseprobe

Maggie Gee

THE BLUE

TELEGRAM

First edition published 2006 by Telegram Books This eBook edition published 2012

eISBN: 978-1-84659-134-1

© Maggie Gee, 2006 and 2012

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

TELEGRAM

26 Westbourne Grove, London W2 5RH

www.telegrambooks.com

This collection is dedicated to my beloved editor and friend, Christine Casley, 1933–2005: into the blue

Contents

The Blue

The Artist

Thank You Tracey Emin

Righteousness

The Good Hope

Good People

The Money

Starting at Last

Ring-barking

Mornington Place

Beautiful Things

What Was Important

Into the Blue

The Blue

The woman had lived through the longest day, which was boiling hot, in the city, pressing and sieving her into tiny pieces. She had five children; they all needed something, though the elder ones were at university.

‘Mum!’

‘Mum!’

‘Mum!’

‘Mum!’

‘MU-U-M!!’

‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘Sorry.’

She worked in a dry cleaner’s, cleaning other people’s clothes. That day, two of the machines had broken down. She had lost three ties and an expensive jacket. A woman came in and said she was a thief. A man had called her an idiot.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Sorry, sir.’

The air was dry and chemical. She wished she could wash the clothes in the river. She and her mother used to do that together.

At three, the woman cleared up to go home. Cleaning other people’s clothes made her dirty; she itched from the solvents; she smelled of sweat. She pulled a white hair from her dark cotton shirt. Now she must go home and cook for her husband.

The traffic was a solid wall of metal. In her own metal box it got hotter and hotter. She hung one arm outside the open window. Then she saw a man in the car alongside, making obscene gestures and grinning at her. She drew in her arm and closed the window, but she heard him yell ‘Bloody women drivers!’

‘Sorry,’ she muttered, feeling small and frightened.

But then something inside her began to expand. Something like a distant pool of blue water. She heard the traffic horns, the revving engines, the man who thought she was a bloody woman, but inside her head there was a great pool of quiet. She drove off the road and left her car.

She began to walk down the familiar track. All her life she had been too busy, she hadn’t come here since she was a girl, but her feet remembered the way to go.

A beggar sat by a baking wall. ‘Give me money, rich woman,’ he said, reproachfully.

The woman had worked all day for almost nothing.

‘No,’ she said. ‘No, sorry.’

She kept on walking; he shouted after her. A cloud of blue butterflies drifted towards her across the dry fields, and danced alongside her, so she could no longer see his small cross shape.

A little further on, by a ruined temple, a gang of teenagers were howling with laughter. They had painted slogans on the walls. ‘Have you got the time, old woman?’ they shouted. ‘Tell us the time!’ They pulled at her wrist. They didn’t want the time, they wanted to hurt her.

‘No,’ she said. ‘No, sorry.’ A butterfly was spread where her watch had once been.

Now the track led on past the elaborate back gardens of the large new houses that faced the sea. People had erected gates and fences where she had once wandered with a troupe of goats. A uniformed man with a revolver suddenly stepped out from behind a hedge.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked. His dark glasses bored into the hole in her sleeve, scraped up and down the dust on her legs. ‘We don’t want beggars here, woman. Get back where you belong, pauper.’

‘No,’ she said, ‘No, sorry,’ and the cloud of butterflies bobbed up around his head, making him shudder and flap his arms, while she slipped past him, on down the path.

A tiny snicket led off to the right past a sweet-scented patch of reseda blossoms. She remembered, with a pang, her mother’s grave. Her mother lay waiting in the little cemetery, pleading for something that life had not given her. Her thirsty voice whispered ‘Please, daughter.’ But how could she make things right for her mother? How could she ever bring enough flowers? The cemetery lay in the wrong direction. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Sorry, dear one.’ She picked a tiny spire of sweet reseda, and the hot wind carried it towards her mother.

The last part of the track was beyond the arch of the new white university. She was proud that her elder children went there. An ancient scholar sat bowed to the ground, reading a heavy tome, in the shade of the arch. He wrinkled up his eyes at her, over gold glasses.

‘Where are you going, young woman?’ he asked. ‘This place is only for those who love learning.’

‘My children love learning,’ the woman replied.

‘Where are your books?’ he insisted, sharply. ‘None of the unlearned come through here. Go back home and study, young woman.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘No, sorry,’ and two of the butterflies flew from her shoulders and landed, one each, on his spectacle lenses, so he could no longer peer at her.

In the distance, under a spreading tree, her elder children were debating with others. Usually they only saw her in the kitchen. They spotted her just as she was leaving the campus and heading on down towards the wide white sand.

‘Mum,’ they called, astonished. ‘Mum! MU-UM! Where are you going?’

Her heart tugged and pulled, but the core of her was deep blue certainty, an ocean of water.

‘Nowhere,’ she whispered. ‘Sorry, children,’ and the butterflies swarmed into a flickering, glistening veil of blue air that hid her from sight. She was alone; all the voices faded.

She padded across the blazing sand. Glad, glad: everything was glad. She knew she could only bear it for a few seconds, but a few seconds would be enough. She took off her clothes. In the distance, people shouted. But the butterflies covered every inch of her body, floating up like blue steam as she slipped into the water. Cool, edgeless, it became her skin. A blue cloud hung on the blue sea wind. She was invisible. She was her soul. Mysterious, liquid, endless, whole.