Deborah Levy - Billy and Girl

Girl is smiling now. She want everyone to talk about FreezerWorld all the time.

“‘Patel Continental and English groceries is a lovely world.

Why buy fresh lemons when you can buy them half dead? Why are they so expensive? Because they are wise lemons. They have seen life all right.”’

‘I’ll tell you what.’ Girl is full of Raj-admiration energy. His interest in her kind of charges her up. She makes her voice casual, like what she’s going to say is of no importance, just an idea to pass time. ‘Let’s all go to FreezerWorld. Now !’

Raj thinks about how sometimes Girl’s black eyes look green. Green for go . Cross the road with mood in your shoulders, take your time, let the hooting vehicles know you’re far away in your mind and they just have to wait. Her eyes are green now and she’s stroking her fringe, agitating it with her fingers. He hands her his mobile to call a cab. Watching her punch in the numbers like she’s calling an ambulance.

‘I’ll stay here.’ Billy ignores Girl’s axe murderer’s stare. ‘You can tell me about it later.’

‘Billy, it’s important that you come with us.’

‘No. I got to bath.’

‘Do you remember what we were talking about?’

Of course her brother remembers what they were talking about. This morning he lay in bed imagining himself talking to a chat-show hostess with beautiful American teeth. He is saying, ‘My father loved your country. He loved Elvis. He knew all the songs.’

The hostess, who is called Niki, folds her arms and gives her famous cheeky twinkly look straight to camera. ‘Billy, would you like to show us all how your father sang “Love Me Tender” in the kitchen when you were a little boy?’

‘I’d like to be able to do that for you, Niki, but the thing is, he usually sang that particular song before he belted me, so I don’t really feel in the mood.’

‘Think that’s our car hooting.’ Raj puts his arm around Girl’s shoulder. ‘One day I’ll have my own car and drive you about.’

Girl opens the front door. Screws up her eyes. ‘That cab’s a lousy pile of shit.’

‘Why don’t you tell him?’

‘Cos he’ll only say, “Had a bad day?”’

Billy screeches. Not exactly a laugh. More like a cat with its tail stuck in a door.

Her brother knows the warning signs. It’s not like his sister is putting a message in a bottle and floating it out to sea. She’s crashing a hatchet with words engraved on it right into his skull. The words say, ‘We are going to do FreezerWorld.’

I hate the English weather. I don’t see the point of smiling about something so tragic. The English people stop me on the streets and say, ‘It’s a bit rainy, if you know what I mean?’ Well, I don’t know what they mean because sometimes it’s not raining. They say it even when the sun is shining. What the fuck are they talking about? Is it just always ‘a bit rainy’? Even when it’s not?

I’m young. My teenage bones need sun verbs, not damp. You buy a sausage, one hundred per cent heritage beef, and make tragic plans to barbeque the crazy fucker. It rains like they said it was going to. You retire indoors with a stoopid English smile on your face and your sausage is reciting from Hamlet . Look, I don’t want to run about in white shorts like an Australian and say to every bloke I meet, ‘See you around,’ like we all live on a beach or something. But I would like the English people to stop me on the street and say ‘It’s a bit sunny, if you know what I mean?’ God, it’s so fucking sad. Not to have language for better weather.

I’m telling you I spray aerosols (flea spray) up at the ozone and chant in Hindi, learned from Raj in exchange for teaching him the meaning of the word ‘mad’. Raj says if me and Girl ever achieve a car he will strip it down for us free. Practise for his mechanic course. The only thing I love about England is Raj. I can’t stand his father’s shop where I have to buy my aspirins and skimmed milk, but Raj is good value. He has given me a piece of his mind free of charge. Respects my analytical skills. Even seeks them out. We have had many a breakthrough in the Pickled Newt. Raj buys me shandy and pretends it’s lager because he wants my best attention. Wants me to be sober and serious and I oblige, keeping an eye on my watch. Take the white boys who hid razor blades in the lid of his school desk. Raj wants to pulp ’em on tarmac when he gets his first Jag. I say, ‘Look, Raj, those razor blades are still inside your head. You got to take ’em out and slit your lousy dog’s throat with ’em.’ He’s got the grace to attempt a laugh (I know all about having to simulate mirth from the Grand-Dad episode) but he insists his mom likes to have the dog in the shop for protection. Even though the dog once chewed her knees under the sari. Five stitches and a tetanus. She needs another dog to protect her from this dog.

England is a nation of dogs. When the monarchy goes, it will be a republic of dogs. The Dog Coast. The United Church of Dog. Dog Mansions. The Dog Café. Dog University. Don’t know why the bulldog is supposed to represent my country. Frankly I would prefer a gonk. At least I could back-comb its blue hair, put it in curlers and tease it up with a bit of lacquer. A French pleat. A quiff. Gonk ponytails. Gonk plaits. Gonkery. Yep, I’ve coined a new word for the British people. The Gonkery Dental Practice. The British School of Gonkery. BA Hons in Gonkery specialising in a variety of hairstyles.

Look, my dad bashed me and no one cried except Girl and Mom. No one’s demonstrating outside Boots the Chemist from the Billy Rights Organisation, are they? There are citizens out there who would rather cry over dogs than me. Why? Cos dogs can’t talk back. They can’t say, Fuck off, you fat cunt, you know I hate meaty chunks. Back to the weather.

If the rain stops you get a weird flash of courage and hope. You think you will find a park to read the newspaper in, like they did in the early nineteenth century. Giggling when they fell off their penny farthings. You shiver under a tree whilst reading the paper (particularly the weather reports) because you want to believe this is a pleasurable experience. To believe this simple task has made you happy and emotionally stable. When you stand up you find you’ve been sitting in a pile of dog shit. Your new suede shoes are fucked. You stink. You’re damp. Your hands are shaking cos it’s cold. Your newspaper is the only thing you’ve got with you to wipe the dog shit off your chainstore clothes. You walk home staring at the sky with crazed, betrayed eyes. I want ozone to open wide and zap me with all it’s got. Cook me, hotness. Take my weedy little body and tan it. Give my white-boy face an unhealthy flush. C’mon, Big O! Gentle over the biceps and then pulp ’em. I can take it.

Yeah. Things are a bit rainy if you know what I mean. Mom. I dreamt her skin was dry. And I dreamt she died. Two glossy purring animals lie on her bed, surrounded by exotic plants with browning leaves. Under the Xmas tree are some presents wrapped up for her children. Mine is a chocolate stretch limousine. Girl hasn’t got anything in hers. It’s just wrapping paper. Sometimes I torment Girl, say hers is a chocolate minicab with three wheels. I am very sad about Mom’s absence in my dream. I remember her taking calcium pills to strengthen her bones. Painting her toenails. Teasing up her hair for her famous beehive style with a special comb. Sitting with her baby girl on her lap watching the weather on TV. I remember her perfume. It was called Moth. All I know is that moths smell blue. Like the night. I remember sweet complicity with Mom in cafés. She ate a full English breakfast and dunked her toast in the yolk for me.