Zoë Strachan

[Author's Note: ‘After They’d Gone’ from Latitude (UK/Philippines), an anthology edited by Toni Davidson.

A version of this story first appeared in the Scottish literary magazine NorthWords as The Song, but I had such a soft spot for it that I revisited it.]

After they’d gone

After they had gone, they became a kind of urban myth, helped by the fact that Hazel had written a song about them. It wasn’t quite Terry and Julie in Waterloo Station, but as the band became more popular people who knew the song and lived in the area might occasionally say:

“There’s the street Sylvie lived in!” or, “That’s where Jack and Sylvie met.”

Like anyone who had ever known Jack and Sylvie together, as a couple, Hazel could picture them clearly. Individually they were fairly good looking, not absolutely stunning, but more attractive than most. Put together though, they were suddenly striking. It was to do with attitude; together they behaved differently, were more quietly confident, more poised. The whole seemed greater than the sum of its two halves. Having said that, it helped that they looked a bit like Bob Dylan and Joan Baez, although to be fair Jack was prettier and wore better clothes than Bob. The clothes were important. Jack and Sylvie always managed to give the impression that they’d made no effort, while looking as if they’d been carefully styled for a retro fashion feature.

The other thing which people tended to remember about Jack and Sylvie was the mermaid. Hazel had heard about the mermaid from Jack. Not long after that she bumped into Sylvie in the street and went to her flat for a cup of tea. While the kettle was boiling, Sylvie took Hazel into the bedroom to introduce her. The mermaid didn’t have a name, Sylvie just called her ‘the mermaid’. She was dark skinned and shiny, with long glossy hair which fell in waves and swirls around her breasts. She was quite obviously a mermaid, because just below her delicate little navel her smooth skin changed to scales. Unfortunately she had lost most of her tail when she was broken off the prow of her ship. Even so, she was almost as tall as Hazel.

“Let’s have our tea through here, she likes company,” Sylvie said, and went back to the kitchen to fetch it. Hazel perched on the edge of the bed, honoured to meet the mermaid but awkward at being left alone with her. She almost felt as though she should be making conversation. The mermaid had properly carved eyes, she noticed, not the blank spaces some statues had. Sylvie came back in with a teapot, cups and biscuits on a tray. Hazel half expected to see three cups instead of two.

“She’s lovely Sylvie. Where did you get her?”

Sylvie stirred her tea, took a sip.

“Well, I was in Orkney, just for some time to myself. A few years ago now. I went to see Scara Brae, then I walked along the beach at Skaill Bay. It was empty, and quiet except for the wind in my ears and the waves lapping at the sand. I looked for shells, then went down to the water’s edge and watched the sea swelling. I saw something dark bobbing about in the grey water, but it took me a while to figure out what it was. When I realised, I took off my shoes and coat and waded in. It was freezing, and she was further away than I thought. I had to go in up to my armpits to reach her, and I was frightened I’d be swept away. But I struggled against the sea and pulled her safely to shore.”

“That’s amazing.”

“That was only the beginning. I had to drag her over the sand dunes and up to the road, hitch a lift back to Stromness and my B&B. Everyone thought I was mad. I thought I’d got pneumonia. I shivered and sneezed for days, but it was worth it.”

She patted the mermaid’s side affectionately.

“Of course, Orcadian legend has it that if you find a mermaid, you’re responsible for her forever. Whatever you do, she’ll never let you go. Not that I’d be without her.”

That was the only time Hazel met the mermaid, but the memory stayed with her. It was like a gift, to balance Sylvie falling in love with her best friend, taking him away. And so, eventually, Hazel wrote the song. She started with the evening Jack and Sylvie got together. It became the first verse. They met at a northern soul night at the RAFA club. A mutual acquaintance, drunkenly ensuring everyone knew everyone else, introduced them. To be honest they would probably have ended up with each other anyway. As it was, they couldn’t believe they had never met before. They talked together, danced together, went back to Sylvie’s together and, in the end, slept together.

When Jack thought back to that night, it wasn’t having sex with Sylvie which he particularly remembered, although that had certainly been a highlight. No, it was meeting the mermaid for the first time which really stuck in his mind. It seemed to him that even while they were in bed, he kept finding himself looking over Sylvie’s shoulder to the mermaid in the corner. He could recall her lips, her eyes, her expression.

Hazel gently edited the story, captured it in lines and rhythms. When she sang the song her mind filled it out, added pictures, remembered meeting Jack and Sylvie in a café the next day, holding hands over the table.

A while later, in the same café but at a different table, Hazel, Jack and a girl called Pearl were having coffee. The mermaid came up in conversation. Hazel said, “It’s such a beautiful story, isn’t it? How Sylvie found her, I mean.”

Jack laughed, “Depends whether you think rooting about in skips is beautiful!”

Puzzled, Hazel said, “But it was in Orkney, wasn’t it? Sylvie rescued her from the sea.”

“No,” Jack said, “It was in Otago Street. God knows where she came from, or who was throwing her out.”

Hazel was about to argue but Pearl got in first, “Sylvie said the mermaid was a family heirloom. It came from the wreck of a pirate ship originally. Her great great grandfather brought it back from the West Indies last century.”

Jack was worried. Had Sylvie lied to him? He couldn’t imagine that, didn’t want to. Or had she just made up more romantic stories for everyone else? And if she had lied to him, why hadn’t she gone to more trouble, invented a special lie? She had crafted a whole myth for Hazel. Unless that really was the truth. He turned it over and over in his mind.

That night, as usual, Jack went round to Sylvie’s flat. They sat in her room, listening to music and chatting. Sylvie opened some wine and lit some candles. Finally Jack asked her where she’d got the mermaid.

“I told you,” Sylvie said. “I bought her in a junk shop in Edinburgh.”

“No, you told me you found her in a skip in Otago Street.”

“Oh, did I?”

Sylvie seemed unconcerned. She poured herself another glass of wine. Jack hadn’t expected this reaction and wasn’t sure how to proceed. He looked at the mermaid, who was gleaming in the candlelight. It made her hair look shinier than usual, in fact it looked almost like real hair, as if it would be soft to touch. Jack turned to Sylvie and tried again,

“You told Hazel a story about pulling her out the sea beside Scara Brae.”

Sylvie remained non-committal.

“And you told Pearl that she was an heirloom.”

They were about to have their first argument about the mermaid. Sylvie insisted it didn’t matter where the mermaid came from, and if she wanted to tell different people different stories then that was her business. Jack didn’t understand why she wouldn’t tell him the truth. He could keep it secret if she wanted. In the end, Sylvie sent him away, and off he went, angry and still none the wiser.

But the next day they made up, and as a peace offering Sylvie let him help her polish the mermaid. She brought out a tin of lavender scented wax and some chamois cloths.

“Okay,” Jack said. “Where will I start?”

“Well, I like doing her hair best, so I’ll start at her head. You can begin at her scales and work your way up.”

Sylvie sang wordlessly to herself as she coated her chamois with polish and started smoothing it on to the mermaid’s hair and face. Jack watched her for a second before he began. It looked as if Sylvie was putting conditioner on the mermaid’s hair, strand by strand, applying make up to her skin. She didn’t just rub the wax all over, instead she carefully blended it on to the mermaid’s eyelids, cheekbones, lips, pausing to check the effect as she polished it up to a sheen. Jack realised that this was a ritual, and had to be performed with a suitable amount of ceremony.

He did the scales around the mermaid’s hips more or less individually, then sat back and considered her stomach and waist. The smell of the polish was strong, like incense. Warm and floral and musky all at once. He rubbed his chamois against the pale lilac balm, smeared it over the wood until it turned creamy and opaque. Then he started massaging the polish in, scooping some excess from her navel with his pinky. Meanwhile, Sylvie was working on the mermaid’s arms, which were held up, her hands clasped behind her head, buried under her hair.

Jack followed the grain, buffing the wood until it shone, acutely conscious of the shape of the mermaid’s body. He had always liked her, from the very first moment he had seen her, but he had never been this close, not until now. He felt how her tummy curved outwards while the small of her back arched in, noticed how full her hips were, the scales starting at their widest point, how she swept inwards at the waist. She had what was called an hourglass figure, he supposed, as he skimmed her sides with his chamois. Sylvie spotted him slowing.

“Put some elbow grease into it! You’ll never see your reflection like that.”

Jack renewed his efforts, trying to concentrate on the polishing, rubbing harder and harder. When he rested one hand on the mermaid for support, the wood felt warm with all the attention it had been given. Like real skin, if skin was ever that sleek or flesh ever that firm. He gave her tummy a final wipe and admired his handiwork. Sylvie was still polishing the mermaid’s hair where it flowed in front of her shoulders.

“Nearly finished. We can do one breast each if you like?”

“Okay,” Jack agreed, picking up his cloth again. The mermaid had a very impressive bosom, and both her nipples were clearly visible, carefully carved. Jack began to polish her right breast, avoiding the couple of curls of hair spiralling over it. As he followed the curve with his hand, Jack became aware of something that he hadn’t expected. He felt kind of ridiculous; all he was doing was polishing a bit of wood after all. But as his arousal grew so did his knowledge that the mermaid wasn’t just carved wood.

He sat on the bed watching Sylvie finish her half. She seemed quite happy, but her actions were more clinical, like a nurse giving a patient a bed bath. At last she folded up her cloth and sat down next to Jack. They both looked at the shining mermaid. Sylvie started to say something, but Jack pulled her towards him and kissed her.

A little later, lying in bed, Jack found himself comparing Sylvie to the mermaid. Sylvie’s hair was poker straight, the mermaid’s wavy. Her skin was pale and matte, the mermaid’s glowed. Sylvie had a slim, boyish figure, the mermaid was strong and voluptuous. He tried to stop thinking that way but he couldn’t get the mermaid out his mind. He didn’t open his eyes because he knew she would be standing there, looking at him, smiling at him.

“Sylvie?”

“Mmmhmm?”

Jack kept his tone casual.

“Where did the mermaid come from?”

Sylvie chuckled.

“Before I met you, a year or two before, I was going out with this boy, John, who was in his final year at art school.”

“Uhuh?”

“He was studying sculpture. He carved her for his degree show. Got a distinction. Then he gave her to me as a present. I didn’t want to tell you before in case you were jealous.”

Jack didn’t really believe Sylvie. She got up, saying she was going to have a bath, and when she was safely gone he got out of bed and went over to the mermaid.

Hazel could imagine all this vividly. She could picture Jack standing entranced, gazing at the mermaid as she gleamed softly in the darkness, not so much enticing as provocative, full of abandon. Jack was taller than her. He had to stoop to breathe in her scent. She hadn’t been carved by an art student, he knew. He could smell the sea from her, mingled with the faded aroma of lavender. His hand looked very white against her dark locks as he traced their waves and curls with his fingertips. Feeling daring, he brushed her cheek with his lips. He almost expected her to move, but of course she didn’t, she stayed absolutely still and passive. Gaining confidence, he ran his hands down her sides, stroking the curve of her waist and hips, stopping when his palms reached her scales. He kissed her mouth this time. She had very full, pouty lips, slightly parted so he could just stick the tip of his tongue between them. She tasted of salt, like sea water or sweat.

Sylvie walked into the room while Jack was caressing the mermaid. He didn’t hear her bare feet on the carpet, didn’t stop what he was doing. She saw him kneeling, naked, to kiss the mermaid’s stomach. Watched him run his tongue up between her breasts, press his lips to her nipples. All that ran through Sylvie’s mind was how? How can she, how will he? Jack stood up, wrapped his arms around the mermaid and Sylvie couldn’t watch any more, couldn’t speak, couldn’t bear to let him know she was there. The mermaid seemed to be looking at her, rather than at Jack. Sylvie crept back through to the bathroom, locked the door, and sank into the warm water.

While she was on stage, singing, Hazel often felt nervous. When she sang the song about Jack and Sylvie and the mermaid however, she became quite unaware of the audience. The thought of Sylvie tiptoeing away to cry in the bath could make her own eyes water. And Hazel still missed them. It wasn’t long after that night that Jack and Sylvie went away.

They didn’t really talk about it, and after they had gone people never quite remembered where they’d moved to, except that it was an island. Nobody got a letter, and only Hazel received an abrupt, battered postcard: “We did it.” Jack and Sylvie had decided to make a clean break. They loaded everything they wanted to keep into Jack’s rickety old car. Sylvie wrapped the mermaid in a white cotton sheet and she and Jack carried her downstairs and laid her gently along the back seat of the car. Hazel slipped her hand under the sheet to touch the mermaid’s head for the last time, surreptitiously ran her thumb over those carved wooden eyes. Then she waved goodbye to Jack and Sylvie as they drove off. She remembered it had been a bright, sunny afternoon.

They had chosen a night time ferry crossing to the island, one that would be quiet. As planned, they waited for the sleepiest, most silent moment. After checking that nobody was about, they carried the mermaid up onto the deck. Jack steadied her while Sylvie slipped the sheet off and the three of them stood for a second, looking out over the water. Jack and Sylvie exchanged glances. Without speaking, they each kissed the mermaid on the cheek, then lifted her up and pushed her over the railing so that she dived head first into the sea and disappeared beneath the waves.

That was to be the end of the song, but a coda insinuated itself in Hazel’s mind and would not leave. It is as clear an image to her as that of Jack and Sylvie walking hand in hand, or Sylvie dragging the mermaid onto a sandy shore. In the final verse, Jack and Sylvie lie sleeping in a room Hazel does not recognise. Jack is still, but Sylvie is agitated, tossing from side to side, her dark hair tangling over the pillow. She is dreaming of the sea again, Hazel knows, of water which should feel cold as it sprays up against her naked body. Saltwater tears are streaming out from under her closed and trembling eyelashes.