Various Pets Alive and Dead by Marina Lewycka Page A

name, theorised about developing the socialist personality. Fred the Red wore the same dung-coloured jumper and a black knitted cap pulled over his ears year in year out, and smelled of cheese and drains, but he played the guitar and told thrilling bedtime stories about Lennie’s adventures in Thinland. Chris Howe, plump and pink like an uncooked sausage, paraded around wearing just a T-shirt and made the kids giggle. Moira Lafferty with her lovely hair and Capiz shell jewellery showed them how to make masks and finger puppets. Chris Watt introduced vegetable carving into the commune in order to disguise the vegetableness of vegetables, so the kids who turned their noses up at anything green or crunchy could pretend they were something else (Clara finds the magic still works for her, and it obviously works for Jason too). And for a while there was Mystery Megan – that’s what the kids called her, because she never said anything.
    So many mums and dads to fuck you up with their good intentions. She sighs, remembering the grubby intimacy of the playroom at Solidarity Hall, with its sky-blue ceilings and rainbow walls and stacks of dusty books piled up in one corner, and the mad belief put about by the Groans that they were on a mission to change the world.
     
… yea-ea, we wept, when we remembered Zion …
     
    Maybe Doro’s right – maybe it would be fun to get everyone together again one more time. A few fat raindrops splat against the glass from a heavy purple cloud hanging over the city skyline. The air smells humid and close. She flicks the windscreen wipers on and prays it will clear up in time for Community Day tomorrow.

SERGE: High heels
     
    There’s rain in the air as Serge follows the flow pouring out of the office at home time; occasional drops splat on his head, but the breeze is warm and they dry quickly. He wonders where Maroushka has vanished to. The French guys and the Hamburger are up ahead, and he keeps a distance, ready to abandon them should she materialise.
    Still trailing them, he crosses the square in front of St Paul’s, heading towards a wine bar which according to the Hamburger stocks the ultimate burgundy. Then his eyes are caught by a flash of yellow in the milling Friday night throng. Yes, it’s Maroushka. Strangely, she’s in almost exactly the same place he saw her when he was having a coffee with Doro. A coincidence? A pattern?
    He breaks away from his group and heads off in her direction. She’s weaving in and out of the sweaty home-time throng and the tourists bunching around the cathedral. She disappears. Then he sees her again. It’s easy to spot that yellow jacket. It draws him like a beacon. Poetry pulses in his veins.
     
Princess Maroushka!
Hear the song of Serge!
Don’t you feel the urge
To be with me beneath the starry skies?
Faint Fibonacci spirals in far-off galaxies.
We’ll hold our breath
Waiting for lightning strikes
And run along the beach in our Nikes.
     
    Okay, not the Nikes.
    Suddenly someone shoves past him, a thin tall woman with streaked blonde hair and a classic Vuitton over her arm.
    ‘Steady on, lady,’ he mutters, but she’s already out of earshot, barging her way in Maroushka’s direction. Seems like she’s on her tail.
    As she gets close, she lets out a long low wail, sort of halfway between a moan and a war cry. Maroushka hears, stops, turns, sees the woman and breaks into a run. The woman starts to run too. He follows, weaving through the crowd behind them, keeping them just in sight.
    The blonde is shouting something that sounds like ‘Iranian war!’
    What the fuck’s going on?
    Maroushka turns her head for a second and yells, ‘Go and piss yourself!’ over her shoulder, then she speeds up her run – but her high heels are against her – she’s wobbling all over the place, at risk of breaking an ankle.
    The blonde, who is wearing flat pumps, is gaining ground.
    Should he intervene? Something tells him that he should not.
    All of a