The Plasticine men three: The importance of Rooms.
George knew all about rooms. He had read about rooms where people started to rot inside and stare at each other across furniture where dust sat waiting, denying them light. His Aunt had told him about Dickens. Lots of rooms there were in Dickens, she would tell him, where hatred slept with one eye open. Nowadays people had more chance to escape. They could leave in cars, take trains, planes, walk. Leave rooms where no one forgave yesterday because it was always here today.
He was in his room just now. But this time it was different. He felt his secret army of plasticine figures kept him special;independent of the murmurring chatter down below where he could hear the house shifting its weight under the invaders.
Why did laughter sound so unconvincing here? No one spoke in their own skin. This was holiday, visitor talk. Words scattered around, scuttling this opinion and that. Back and forth, back and forth. Cloying promises that shrivelled your heart.
His Aunt used to close her mouth and would retreat to the garden. She would find a corner where a book could hide her for days. She could make herself disappear. That was her magic. She could disappear. You could forget about time in a book, words got cleaner. You could forget who you were apparently responsible for and just go away.
Away.
George picked up a long snake- piece of plasticine. THis one deserved purple. This woman. That woman. All one colour. She never varied her shape or her mind. Always, always quite made up her mind. George smiled. He made a delicate neck for the large head, building in precariousness from the start. The wobble of life, the face called it. Beware the wobble of life.
Would she feel it yet? Everyone got a sense somewhere the face had told him. Somewhere they would know that they were watched. They might get a nudge in the back or even just that pin prick that said, well what did it say, maybe just a something is here, is coming back to make sense, to changeover.
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