Here, said my father, this is me in the garden at Comerton House.
That is when he handed me the photograph. I must have glanced at it at the time, even taken it to show Damaris, but I don’t remember. Sometime later I must have stored it with the tape recorder, because that is where I found it. I am holding it now, before my computer; the light from the screen reveals a small boy no more than nine years old, sitting on a swing. In the picture, taken many years before I was born, and which I look at now some three decades after my father’s death, I see him in a curious grey-blue light. He is looking fixedly at the camera. Behind him rises a stone wall partially covered with ivy. The boy has small white hands that grip the twine of the swing. He is wearing winter clothes: knitted cap, house slippers, ribbed woollen socks, kilt, tweed waistcoat beneath an open blazer. His eyes seem to stare back at me with great anxiety. The way he holds himself — stiff-necked, eyes focused intensely on the lens — expresses great worry, as if he felt like an intruder in the garden, as if he feared that at any moment someone would come to turn him out, as if the swing, the ivy, the vegetables, the paths and all the lovely things had been intended for another boy entirely, and that his enjoyment of them was eclipsed by the knowledge that at any moment now this error would be discovered, and that he would be obliged to give up what was the only truly happy period of his life.
25. Transcribing Damaris’ Diary: Britain
The night my father told his stories, the wind blew strongly. I can hear it whistling and moaning in the background of the tape. It got through the walls, stirred the air, raised dust and ash from my father’s spent cigarettes and made him cough. Today in my attic the wind is blowing strongly too. All kinds of eerie, whining noises float up through the floor. The sheets of my history, which cover the skylight, flutter in the breeze, like outsized moths. It took me two nights to transcribe my father’s story. I worked for hours without pause. Sitting at my desk, headphones over my ears, listening, copying, stopping the tape, rewinding, watching the numbers tick on the counter, noting where the relevant details lay, going over them again, pausing, copying, beginning again — such happiness I have not known in years! As soon as I finished the transcription I printed it out, twice by mistake, which gave me a thrilling sensation. I even laughed as the printer coughed up the sheets and delivered them out on to the floor. I didn’t pick them up or read them but just left them right where they lay. When my laughter stopped I felt quiet and calm. I sat on my mattress and closed my eyes, thinking of nothing in particular. I felt terrifically happy. Apart from the moaning of the wind, the attic was quiet. Every now and then there was a gust, fluttering my sheets. Sometime later I stood and began to busy myself with domestic tasks. I swept the floor. I emptied my bucket. I went down to the pantry and renewed my supply of beans. I had a sudden urge to take a walk. Strange. I had not left the house in quite some time. I got dressed and brushed my teeth. I stuffed my ears with cotton wool. It was late morning. Quite a breeze. I stood for a while letting the wind play with my hair. On the way to the beach I had a scuffle with a cat. I dusted myself off then walked on the sand. I watched the dogs, many different breeds, chasing the surf. Their owners I noted too. The Lindsay twins. Mrs Ewan.
Now I am back at my desk. Before me is the diary that belonged to Damaris. There was a time in my history when I would have paused to describe it at length, noting its appearance, its size, make, the image on its cover, as well as the condition of the paper, its general state of decay and so on. I might have related how Damaris left her diary behind when she left me. Perhaps I would have talked of the difficulties of deciphering her handwriting, how she never used ‘and’ but a sign which looks like an inverted ‘y’. No longer. All I can say at this late stage is that I brought the diary from the wardrobe and opened it somewhere near the beginning.
28 May 1972
Night falls and so do I. The terrors. Always on tour and in cities like this. What’s his word again? Spectral? Edinburgh, he said, is like a pen-and-ink drawing left out in the rain. Rehearsals going well. The most beautiful drowner he’s ever seen, he said.
Silent terrors, and they silence me too when I’m awake because I can’t describe them. They turn me to stone. Ironic really, is what I think whenever I sneak off in between rehearsals to go stand frozen on the Royal Mile, acting the statue. He’d go mad if he knew.
1 June
Today is his birthday. Champagne after rehearsals in the theatre bar, this far out little cellar dive with red-check tablecloths and candles in old wine bottles. One by one the rest of them leave until it’s just him and me. Then he went to the toilet, and I left. Walking out the door, I saw the barmaid give me this look. I’ve seen her before. She works as an usher here. Strange bird.
2 June
This morning at rehearsal I winked at him. He ignored me. He won’t have liked being left like that. As though I’d just let him pounce! He looked more annoyed than usual during the lost in the forest scene when Jack has to carry me across the river. Me and Jack had a laugh about that, wondering which of us he was more jealous of. We open in six days. I’m out of money. So tomorrow after rehearsal I’ll spend the evening as I’ll have doubtless spent the night, dead still, dead silent. A living statue.
It’s not just the money. I like being looked at. And it’s different, in the street, in the middle of the crowd. When you’re on stage, the audience can’t touch you, even if they want to. Out in the street, they could but they don’t. They know the rules. I like that. You pick your spot, lay down your crate, put out your tin, step on to the crate, assume a pose. They flip a coin into the tin and I shudder into motion, then halt, only moving again when they drop in more coins. Mostly it’s kids and couples, tourists. But sometimes it’s men on their own. With them it’s different. To them I’m an object. How could I not be, a statue! They stare openly, rudely, crudely, knowing I can’t stare back. They walk round me, farmers inspecting cattle at auction, knowing I can’t turn to follow their gaze. My costume, black leotard and tights, a shadow made solid with my face painted out a ghostly white. They stare, then, having established they’re masters of the situation, drop money into the tin, allowing me a few seconds of freedom. Turns me on a bit, I think.