Crazy Annie

PORTRAIT OF A LADY
By
Kim West

Crazy Annie dreams of the future when she can get the power. She wheels
her bike through the rain. The tyre's flat again. Her bag strap's
busted and so she's tied it up with string. Her coat flaps in the wind
as she makes her way home. How can she get the dosh to repair her tyre?
That's what she's go to work out. She could nick the repair kit she
needs. She did that last time, but they know her in the bike shop now.
She could say:
"Look I don't want to nick it, so why don't you let me clean the floor
and in return you give it to me?"
Ho! Ho! Ho! Crazy Annie knows the answer.
Crazy Annie's growing her hair. Well she's got no choice really because
they won't even let her in the hairdressers any more. So her hair's a
flag behind her when she's cycling down the hill. She's going grey. She
doesn't care. She calls it her natural highlights. She knows that women
these days pay top whack to have them put in. She heard it on the
radio. Still she'd like the ends trim like she used to and she'd like
it washed. Well you can't steal haircuts can you?
She's a slim lady. She's supple and energetic. One meal a day does for
the slim bit and the supple energy comes from cycling and spirit. She's
living on nothing. She's living in a bare room, where she sleeps like a
dog does on the floor. Crazy Annie curls up under her rug. She eats
bread and honey. She drinks water and pinches apples and pears from the
market.

Annie retreated into her bare room when they returned her to the
community. She made herself a circuit like a hamster:
A little of this, a nibble of food.
A little of that, her regular 4 hours a day in the library.
Cycle round and round the town. That's about 2 hours.
A visit to the museum to sit on a sofa and stare at that huge painting
of Christ. Another 2 hours.
A chat with the pigeons in the park.
Then home again.
Every day.

"They" used to visit. She used to ignore "them". Someone bought her a
kettle. She threw it out of the window.
"What do I want that for? It's only a trick. I'll drink tap water,
thank-you."
They don't visit anymore.
"You can bang your head against the wall for so long. Then you have to
give up." They said
"Give up!" echoed Annie
"Give up and leave me alone."
That's the way she wanted it.

Crazy Annie turns the corner with her bike. The rain's eased, but the
pavement's puddled and her bike bumps along beside her.
All she needs it a bit of dosh to mend that puncture. Well it's not all
really, because she'd like a new coat for the winter. A warm lady's
coat from the department store and some boots to keep out the wet. Her
old trainers offer no protection against the elements.
"Crazy Annie they call me since I came back.
I never was called that before.
Anita, that's my name."
She passes the greengrocer's. Two apples find their way into her
pocket.
The bike shop's getting nearer. She has two pennies in her pocket, but
that won't be enough so she passes by sadly. The proprietor turns to
look as she goes by. Once. He'd have repaired it free of charge.
"It's OK love. I can see you ain't got sixpence. On the house this
time. On the house."
But he wouldn't do that again. Not since she had started nicking from
him. He turns away.
"What's the good of a bike, when you can't ride it? It's just a bloody
nuisance to push around. I love the bloody thing. Some people got dogs,
canaries. Me I've got a bike. But I've got no bleeding money till
Friday."
So Crazy Annie's bike remains un-repaired.
She pushes it down the little red brick alleyway and round to the back
of the house. She drops it by the dustbin.
She's cold and wet.
"Stupid bloody bike."
That evening she paces the room. It's always warm. The Man lights the
stove and so she can always dry out her coat and shoes. Of course she
never sees him these days. But she can remember times, back in the
distance when they drank tea together in the garden. That garden was
different then because he used to tend it. He used to cut the lawn and
put in marigolds and she used to talk with him. She can remember that.
If she could do that now, he might give her money for the bicycle
repair. He used to buy her clothes. They used to talk. She doesn't even
see him anymore. She paces the floor. He gave her radio once. She used
to listen to it all the time, until the night she threw it at the wall.
He took it away and has kept away from her since then.
Later, as the light fades she curls up by her stove and pulls the rug
around. She slips away through the floor and off on her dreams...
The sun is shining. She and the Man are cycling along together by the
river. They chat and he cycles in the middle of the road, putting his
feet up on the handlebars and pretending to fall off. Her laughter
resounds....

And somewhere in the upstairs rooms, the Man now sits by his lonely
stove.
"Yes that's how I remember her. Full of fun. Me with my cycling cap on.
She used to be merciless about that, calling me "Andy Capp" or "Cloth
Head" and she would sing songs about me at the top of her voice, as we
cycled along. We cycled for miles those afternoons. Out of the town and
down the lanes, exploring the villages. Her beautiful hair in a long
plait.
That person is gone. There's a mocking ghost who sleeps on the floor
and who in no way resembles her, but has taken her place. The past is a
shattered bowl. The present is all the pieces. We're talking here of
the woman who was my beautiful sister. I'm the custodian of the broken
pieces that cannot be reassembled. Crazy Annie they call her.
I see she's left that old bike outside again. Must be another puncture.
I shall get that done before she wakes up.

Crazy Annie sleeps and sleeps. She never wakes till mid-morning. She
stretches and shivers. It's a cold morning. Up she jumps and rubs her
arms vigorously, to make herself warm. Then she carefully sets out her
meal. There's bread from the cupboard. He puts that in there. There's a
new jar of honey and her two apples from yesterday. She breaks the
bread and dips it in the honey. Then she dips an apple in the
honey.
A new day. The bicycle is back in the hallway. And off we go.
In an upstairs window, her brother stares.
"There she goes. Off round the town. Better get down there and clean
up. Better get the stove going."

The wind in my ears
The people scurry by
I am the flying lady
And as I flap by
They stare