shirt around his neck, ripped the body of his shirt and tied it to the leg of the bed, then spent the next four minutes trying to strangle himself because there was no height for hanging . He’d maintained a long, determined pull against the leg of the bed – pull, pull, head away from the bed, away, until the air was less and then nothing. I wondered how anyone could do this. I understood jumping off a building or kicking a chair, when one quick and irreversiblemovement is all it takes, no turning back. But maintaining the effort throughout, when you could change your mind and just stop, just live, seemed incredible.
It hadn’t been a success, Bob said, because the uniforms in the health centre corridor had put their booklets down and turned around for a Code Blue.
*
Bob finished a game of mini-basketball (he had a net set up on his office door) and then escorted me to the chaplaincy.
Father Moscardini was a good-looking Scots-Italian man of about forty. His clothes were well ironed and he was trim and smiley. His wee room contained loads of cookery books and biographies. The radio was on. Father Moscardini was nothing like Father O’Hair or any of the other unhappy-looking priests I’d met as a child. He loved his job, and found giving comfort to men who were often at their lowest very rewarding. He’d just come back from performing a wedding for one of the inmates.
‘They seemed very much in love,’ the priest said. ‘It was very moving.’
‘I want to talk to you about Jeremy Bagshaw,’ I said, explaining his situation and his tragic past. ‘He’s worried about opening up.’
‘He needn’t be worried,’ Father Moscardini said. ‘I’ll go over and see him this afternoon.’
21
Something weird was happening to me. It started innocently enough, as an interview disguised as a manicure, but it was snowballing into other girly pursuits such as buying perfume and browsing in wedding-dress boutiques that I’d accidentally parked in front of.
‘When’s the big day?’ the assistant at Giuseppina Botti asked me.
I replied that I hadn’t set a date yet. Even if I had, I would probably buy a reasonably priced trouser suit that I could wear again to various occasions and was I still talking out loud? If I was, the assistant wasn’t listening; she was checking my sizes.
I had only ever worn a dress once, and it hadn’t been pleasant. I’d spent the whole evening with a scowl on my face hoping to God I didn’t have to run for a fire exit. Dresses were nonsensical, and yet the white gloriousness I was trying on was making me flush. Touching the raw silk of one in particular seemed to bring on the swelling sensation I had recently come to understand.
I tried on several, but in the end it was the V-neck mermaid sheath with vertical passimentarie detail and floral-embroidered bust that spoke to me so loudly I paid £1,320 for it, on Visa. I’d return it, no doubt, but I couldn’t resist taking it home with me, even if just for a few days.
Why did I do that? Something very strange was happening to me. Maybe it was the chaplain who’d reminded me of the world of ritual I’d forsaken, or the tragic newly-weds, or moving in with Chas, or maybe it was Robbie, who was sleeping much better, and life was getting easy again, and I wouldn’t want that, would I?
I snuck in the front door, got changed into my dress, crept into the spotless living room and went ‘Boo!’ Chas and Robbie were hugging on the sofa watching the Tweenies. Robbie lunged at me with his Nutella on toast and covered the whole of the vertical passimentarie detail in chocolate spread.
‘Shite!’ I said.
‘Shite!’ Robbie said.
Chas stood nervously at the bathroom door as I banged at the bodice with a wet flannel. It would have been very helpful for Chas at this point if there’d been a little guy at the bottom right-hand side of me ‘ interpreting for the male’:
CHAS: Are we getting married?
ME: No, I’m just going a
It hadn’t been a success, Bob said, because the uniforms in the health centre corridor had put their booklets down and turned around for a Code Blue.
*
Bob finished a game of mini-basketball (he had a net set up on his office door) and then escorted me to the chaplaincy.
Father Moscardini was a good-looking Scots-Italian man of about forty. His clothes were well ironed and he was trim and smiley. His wee room contained loads of cookery books and biographies. The radio was on. Father Moscardini was nothing like Father O’Hair or any of the other unhappy-looking priests I’d met as a child. He loved his job, and found giving comfort to men who were often at their lowest very rewarding. He’d just come back from performing a wedding for one of the inmates.
‘They seemed very much in love,’ the priest said. ‘It was very moving.’
‘I want to talk to you about Jeremy Bagshaw,’ I said, explaining his situation and his tragic past. ‘He’s worried about opening up.’
‘He needn’t be worried,’ Father Moscardini said. ‘I’ll go over and see him this afternoon.’
21
Something weird was happening to me. It started innocently enough, as an interview disguised as a manicure, but it was snowballing into other girly pursuits such as buying perfume and browsing in wedding-dress boutiques that I’d accidentally parked in front of.
‘When’s the big day?’ the assistant at Giuseppina Botti asked me.
I replied that I hadn’t set a date yet. Even if I had, I would probably buy a reasonably priced trouser suit that I could wear again to various occasions and was I still talking out loud? If I was, the assistant wasn’t listening; she was checking my sizes.
I had only ever worn a dress once, and it hadn’t been pleasant. I’d spent the whole evening with a scowl on my face hoping to God I didn’t have to run for a fire exit. Dresses were nonsensical, and yet the white gloriousness I was trying on was making me flush. Touching the raw silk of one in particular seemed to bring on the swelling sensation I had recently come to understand.
I tried on several, but in the end it was the V-neck mermaid sheath with vertical passimentarie detail and floral-embroidered bust that spoke to me so loudly I paid £1,320 for it, on Visa. I’d return it, no doubt, but I couldn’t resist taking it home with me, even if just for a few days.
Why did I do that? Something very strange was happening to me. Maybe it was the chaplain who’d reminded me of the world of ritual I’d forsaken, or the tragic newly-weds, or moving in with Chas, or maybe it was Robbie, who was sleeping much better, and life was getting easy again, and I wouldn’t want that, would I?
I snuck in the front door, got changed into my dress, crept into the spotless living room and went ‘Boo!’ Chas and Robbie were hugging on the sofa watching the Tweenies. Robbie lunged at me with his Nutella on toast and covered the whole of the vertical passimentarie detail in chocolate spread.
‘Shite!’ I said.
‘Shite!’ Robbie said.
Chas stood nervously at the bathroom door as I banged at the bodice with a wet flannel. It would have been very helpful for Chas at this point if there’d been a little guy at the bottom right-hand side of me ‘ interpreting for the male’:
CHAS: Are we getting married?
ME: No, I’m just going a
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