Luke Williams - The Echo Chamber

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.

4 June

That bargirl from the other night. She came up to me today, as I was playing the statue. Girl I say but more like a young man with her cricketer’s stride, hands in trouser pockets. That’s how she approaches, and then she stands in front of me, never minding that a couple of young boys are there, about to make me move. She elbows them to one side then stares so hard at me she freaks them and they skedaddle. Meanwhile I’m still standing there, still. Usually, I can’t look over the person looking me over — being looked at makes it impossible to do any looking yourself. Like being onstage when the footlights blind you to the individual members of the audience. But this bird spends so long in front of me, drops so many coins into my tin, that with each move I’m able to take in a bit more, until I get a sense of the whole of her. Which is, strong and determined like a Channel swimmer. One from the 1920s. Tall, flat-chested, severe bob. And those ears! A boat with its oars out, I thought. Something paddle-ish

Paddle-ish!

Something paddle-ish about her shape too. Something Edwardian about her. But she’s young, my age. And so the young Edwardian man-woman

Man-woman!

the young Edwardian woman stands in front of me for quite a while, giving me this funny look. Different funny to the other night, but still funny. Head to one side, smile lopsided like it’s about to slip off her face altogether, looking for all the world like she’s expecting something, like she’s waiting for me to do something she’s known all along I was about to do. That annoyed me, and I wanted to wrongfoot her. So I gave her the Seven Deadly Sins. When she dropped in her change, I moved into a different position. More coins. Again, I moved position. I gave her several versions of Lust. The one where I look like a gargoyle. The ones from the convent I used to commune with during mass. She didn’t seem impressed. Or unimpressed. It was as if she was expecting me to assume a particular pose, and, when I didn’t, felt the need to keep paying up until I moved into the exact position that would satisfy her. What this position was, I never knew, cos after an hour or so of this, I saw her pat her pockets and look at me sadly. I knew from her gestures and sorry expression that she’d run out of money, and I knew too she’d come back. And it was funny, I realized as she walked away, never looking back as she loped off in that way of hers, how she’d communicated all this to me without a single word.

5 June

Yesterday she came back. I gave her Pride every time. Hand on hip, chin tilted, and, as I turned my cheek, I thought I saw the wardrobe girl, Tamara, passing through the crowd. I hope not. She’s having a thing with Jack and doesn’t like me. She’s bound to tell on me.