Beyond Black. Hilary Mantel
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outerwear, whatever, you see it’s not just specific to her trade, is it?’
‘What? You mean, she could pop to the postbox in it? Do the dusting? In one of her stage outfits?’
‘If she liked. I’m trying to envisage – you didn’t bring pictures, did you?’
‘I’ll drop some in.’
‘That might be a help. So we could work out what sort of class of item we’re dealing with – you see, if it were, well, a barrister’s wig, say, or protective clothing, say, boots with steel toecaps, for example…’
‘So are you telling me they’ve made special rules about it? For mediums?’
‘Well, no, not specifically for – what you say your partner does. I’m just going by the nearest cases I can envisage.’ The woman looked restless. ‘I suppose you might classify it as show business. Look, I’ll pass it up for consideration. Take it under advisement.’
Colette wished – wished very strongly, most sincerely – that she had Al’s powers, just for sixty seconds. So that a whisper, a hiss, a flash, so that something would overtake her, some knowledge, insight, some piece of special information, so that she could lean across the desk and tell the woman at the tax office something about her private life, something embarrassing: or something that would make the hair stand up on the back of her neck. For the moment, they agreed to differ. Colette undertook to keep a complete record of Al’s expenditure on stage outfits. She lost no time, of course, in computerising their accounts. But the thought nagged at her that a record kept in figures was not quite enough.
Hence her good idea, about writing a book. How hard could it be? Al made tape recordings for her clients, so wasn’t it logical, in the larger world, to tape-record Al? Then all she would need to do would be transcribe, edit, tighten up here and there, make some chapter headings…her mind moved ahead, to costings, to a layout, a photographer…Fleetingly, she thought of the boy in the bookshop, who’d sold her the tarot pack. If I’d been self-employed then, she thought, I could have set those cards against tax. Those days seemed distant now: leaving the boy’s bedsit, at 5 a.m. in the rain. Her life with Gavin had receded; she remembered things he had, like his calculator, and his diver’s watch, but not necessarily the evil things he had done. She remembered her kitchen, the scales, the knives; but not anything she cooked there. She remembered her bed, and her bed linen; but not sex. I can’t keep on losing it, she thought, losing chunks of my life, years at a time. Or who will I be, when I’m old? I should write a book for me, too. I need a proof of some sort, a record of what goes down.
The tape recorder worked well on the whole, though sometimes it sounded as if Alison had a bag over her head; Colette’s questions, always, were piercingly clear. But when they played the tapes back, they found that, just as Al had foreseen, other items had intruded. Someone speaking, fast and urgent, in what might be Polish. A twittering, like small birds in a wood. Nightingales, Alison said unexpectedly. Once, a woman’s irate voice cut through Alison’s mutter: ‘Well, you’re in for it now. You’ve started so you may as well finish. It’s no use asking for your money back, sunshine. The trade doesn’t work that way.’
COLETTE: When you were a child, did you ever suffer a severe blow to the skull?
ALISON: Several…Why, didn’t you?
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