by Janet Ellis
I’d humoured him as if he were playing a game. He was too young, too close to childhood himself, to understand. I’d laughed as he invented our flight, fantasising about long sea crossings and living in strange cities. I told him yes, I could sing while he played the piano on ocean liners, teasing him about the repertoire and the other passengers. But although he’d laughed too, I knew he was already imagining packing up his things. He would carefully remove the pictures to stick on other walls. Poor, painted Jeanne would have to do a little more travelling until she could rest. ‘We’ll make plans soon,’ Philip said, his voice rising in excitement and I shushed him in case his neighbours heard us.
I wanted to leave his room earlier than we’d arranged. I was hot and sticky with a heavy cold coming. After he’d dropped me at the nearest, safest bus stop, I wept fat, rich tears of self-pity. Arriving home, swaddled by darkness, I’d encountered my neighbour on her doorstep. She was squeezing a rolled-up note for the milkman into a bottle’s damp lip.
‘Choir practice?’ she said. I’d only nodded in answer. She stayed where she was for longer than her errand needed. ‘They shouldn’t make you sing such sad songs, should they?’ she said. She stared at me. ‘Not very nice for your husband, having you come home like that.’ I didn’t reply. ‘He’ll cheer you up, though.’ She smiled in agreement with her own appraisal. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Your husband’s a very good sort.’
Chapter 9
Eddie watched Sarah through a sliver of open door. She was sitting on her bed and talking out loud, but there was no one else in the room. She spoke quickly and almost in a whisper. Bringing her hands to her face from time to time, she smiled and tipped her head. Although he risked stepping on the creaking floorboard, Eddie crept closer.
‘A party?’ she said. ‘Yeah, I think I can come. If I’m free, I’d love to come. Yeah.’ She laughed and patted her own arms, stroking as if to reassure herself. ‘Let’s meet up after school. Yeah, I love T Rex too.’
The floorboard under him squeaked.
Sarah looked over to where Eddie stood. Flinging the door open, she seemed almost boiling in her wrath while he cowered, frozen, in front of her. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ she said.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t listening.’
‘You bloody were. I was going to set up a farm with you, but I won’t now.’
Eddie’s eyes filled with tears at this instant cruelty. She hardly ever wanted to play these days and he’d tried to enjoy just setting games up, as that was all she was likely to do before she stopped. He would settle for that. He would have liked even that.
‘Go and play with your stupid truck,’ she said. Her expression changed.
Eddie felt afraid for the first time. She was planning something, he could tell. There was a sense of purpose about her, and the redness that had coloured her cheeks when she discovered him was fading. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, mentally planning his retreat.
She towered over him, pushing him against the wall on the landing and preventing escape. He watched, feeling weak with sorrow, as she went into his room. She emerged holding Truck aloft. Truck was a little metal lorry. A tiny faceless driver had once perched in his cab but was lost long since. Truck himself had a face, his headlights and grille styled to look human. Eddie loved him. Despite the toy’s hard edges Truck was a source of comfort. He looked both ridiculous and brave as Sarah swung him above her head. Eddie didn’t make a sound; he thought she’d twist the story until he was only and utterly at fault. She took her prize into the bathroom and held the toy down the lavatory, sluicing it in the water in the bowl. Eddie felt faint. He sat down in the doorway. He couldn’t save Truck or himself. If Sarah had expected him to cry out or attempt to wrestle Truck from her, she was at first disappointed, then horrified, by Eddie’s silence.
‘It’s okay,’ she said, drying Truck on the bathmat. ‘Eddie, for Christ’s sake, have it back.’ Eddie’s arms stayed by his sides. She pushed the toy into his chest as though he’d take it in reflex, but he didn’t move. ‘Eddie.’ Sarah knelt in front of him, put the toy on the floor and wrapped her arms around him. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I was just teasing you.’
It was too late. Truck was different now. He was reduced. I’m going to bury him, Eddie thought. Then I’ll never have to look at his face again.
Chapter 10
Illumination in Michael’s room is a choice between the glare from the single, central bulb or a weak puddle from the light above his bed. The overhead light feels unkind. I turn on the television. It contributes a cold, grey spill. He can’t hear it; the breathing mask, replaced again without ceremony (‘Here we go, Michael, it needs to do its job’), is noisy but he watches the screen. ‘Do you want the volume up?’ I say. He lets me know without much movement, just a tiny flicker of his eyes, that he doesn’t need to hear it. The hospital is gearing up for visiting time, and there’s a different energy to the rumble of trolleys and the conversations in the corridor outside. People who haven’t spent all day here are adjusting to the pace, finding the right room, hoping to leave soon. Michael and I stare at some sort of quiz; people clap their hands to their heads in grief if they give a wrong answer or clasp each other in joy if it’s right. The winning couple look pleased enough with their cheque. I wish I could leave. I don’t want him to die but I wish he’d get on with it. In my head, I am explaining his death to his friends, to my colleagues, to Sarah, when she calls. If she calls.
I fish around in the bag. My hand closes over a letter without an envelope. I know this one, I don’t need to read it.
Dear Mrs Deacon,
I enclose the leaflet about head injury complications I discussed with you. You may find it useful. Research is ongoing and we are always most grateful for donations.
The picture I retrieve is a wedding photo that I hadn’t intended to bring. It must have stuck to another for the ride here. ‘Look,’ I say to Michael. His eyes swivel, he frowns. My brocaded dress was so stiff, it could have stood up alone. It was too big for my wardrobe so I’d hung it from the picture rail the night before our wedding. From underneath the gauze cocoon of its cover, it looked as if another woman was waiting to burst free and marry Michael in my stead.
How determined I was to see Philip that night. My cold, which I was loath to admit was more like flu, was closing my eyes and constricting my throat. ‘There’s no point in you going to the rehearsal, you’re not well,’ Michael had said, as I tried, unsuccessfully, not to splutter and stream. ‘You can hardly speak, let alone sing,’ he said. I’d even had my coat on, ready to leave. Michael put my irrational behaviour down to a fever. He’d bossed me into bed with a hot drink.
I see myself arriving at the church hall the following week. In my mind’s eye, I look again, uselessly, for Philip, among the familiar faces and in all the corners of the room. I hadn’t had any means of telling him I wasn’t going to be there the week before; perhaps he was paying me back with his absence now. Everyone assembled into their groups; the cat-woman soprano smiled at me to acknowledge my return.
The choirmaster tapped his baton on the stand. ‘Before we start,’ he’d said, ‘as I think we all know, very sadly, one of our tenors, dear Philip Moore, was killed in a road accident last week. His parents have asked that we dedicate our concert to his memory, which of course we are honoured to do.’ Everyone murmured and sighed in unison. It was an impromptu madrigal of mourning. ‘The funeral is next Tuesday,’ he said, ‘but as it’s for the family and close friends only, I shall make a collection for some flowers. He was always . . .’
But I could no longer hear him. The layers of my skin felt as dense as clay. I only knew I was holding the sheet music because I saw it trembling in my hands. I mouthed the words of the songs because I didn’t trust myself to sing. I had to concentrate on breathing, urging air in and reminding myself of expulsion. When did it happen? Why hadn’t I felt a shock as he died, or lay dying? How much did he suffer? I should have felt a tremor at least,
as twins are supposed to do if one of them is ill, or worse. For how long since he died had I been doing all the usual, stupid, pointless things, ignorant of his fate? As people jostled for cups of tea I hunted out conversations where Philip’s name might be mentioned. A man and woman talked in low voices about shock and death and his family. I stood close to them.
‘Where is the funeral?’ I said. They separated, reluctantly, to admit me to their conversation. ‘I’d like to pay my respects.’
The woman’s eyebrows rose in the traditional arch of sympathy. ‘Did you know him well?’ she said. ‘Away from here, I mean.’
‘A little,’ I said. ‘He taught my friend’s son.’
‘He lived in Otsford, didn’t he?’ The woman sounded vague. She’d obviously hoped I had had a closer connection to him than that. ‘I suppose they’ll have it there.’
The man nodded.
‘Was it sudden, do you know?’ I said. ‘Did he die at once?’
They frowned.
‘Was he knocked down,’ I persisted, ‘or was he the one driving?’
The choirmaster began calling us to reassemble.
‘Ah, there we are, off we go again,’ the woman said. She looked relieved to be escaping my questioning. ‘He was very young, wasn’t he,’ she said, busying herself with the next piece of music. ‘Well, about the same age as you, I suppose. How old are—’
But I feigned a coughing fit and fled. When I’d discovered that my coat was submerged underneath several others on the peg in the cloakroom, I’d thrown them all to the ground to retrieve it and left them there.
Philip’s death was outrageous to me. I was irate at his carelessness. I’d told Michael I had a doctor’s appointment to explain my determination to leave the house early on that Tuesday and he’d frowned, because I knew he could see me crying. I was even furious at his concern. I remember standing opposite the church in Otsford. I had no idea what time his funeral would be held. I could be standing for hours, waiting. I’d wait for however long it took, I didn’t want to leave. I found a tin of liquorice sweets in my bag and placed several of the tiny, fierce pellets on my tongue. When the first mourners began to arrive, they circled the porch and greeted each other in pairs and fours and sixes, then dispersed and reassembled, like the drones cast out of the ants’ nests each summer. Eventually, they shuffled back together and formed a ragged line as the hearse approached. The coffin was squat and ugly. There were only two bunches of flowers on top. I’d wished I’d known exactly how long I’d been in the world without him.
I wept, ragged with anger. The mourners were still huddled in the porch outside the church. No one embraced. There were two older, rather smarter people I thought might have been his parents. A tiny woman in a brave, bright hat buzzed from one person to another, a bee on black flowers. And a man who looked a bit like Philip, but not unbearably so (a brother? or cousin? I’d never know), stared at a book in his hand, open at a page he would probably read from during the service. It was doing me no good to watch their grief, it only increased the distance between us.
I had lain in bed that night, awake, waiting, until Michael climbed in beside me, expecting me to be asleep. I’d touched him and sucked him, feeling his surprise at this departure from our usual routine. Before he could lean over to the bedside cabinet for what he needed, I moved above him, pinning him beneath me, so that he couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop. He clasped my waist and although the room was dark, I knew he didn’t take his eyes off me. With every movement, every tiny gasp and sigh, I was obliterating Philip. I was denying to myself that his hungry, furtive love had ever existed at all. The same body that had opened warm and wet to him closed around Michael, my arms held him tight until I was convinced that his shape was enough to fill them. As he groaned and reared beneath me, I stared at the ceiling, my eyes stretched wide and unblinking.
Chapter 11
23 September
Dream Boyfriend
Side parting, long fringe. Brown hair.
Floral shirt? Cheesecloth? (Just at weekends of course.)
Likes poetry, esp. ee cummings.
Knows the lyrics to ‘Ride a White Swan’.
Has a sister (to be my friend).
Taurus.
Two years older than me. Doing English A-level NOT GEOGRAPHY.
Can play the guitar (but hasn’t got yucky long fingernails to pluck the strings, like Izzy’s brother).
Faithful.
Learning to drive.
Smokes.
Honey magazine says you can plan to be the girlfriend of his dreams. If his last girlfriend had long hair, for example, they say that you should get yourself a head of short, shiny bounce. I don’t think I’d look very nice with short hair. I want him to have had a girlfriend before me, of course. But not be too experienced.
I’m going to have loads of boyfriends before I’m too old. Some girls fall straight out of their school uniform into a wedding dress. That is not enough experience at all.
I caught sight of her the other night getting ready for bed. She was in her nightie, bending over the basin. I could see the cheeks of her bottom wobbling as she cleaned her teeth. I have added please do not let me ever have a bum like that to my prayers.
I shouldn’t have pretended to flush Eddie’s truck down the loo but he’s being all weird about it now and saying he doesn’t want it any more. I told him it’s only a toy, it doesn’t matter if it got wet. I’ll get him a new one for his birthday, if I can afford it. I read to him tonight. I opened My Friend Flicka at random. I didn’t get very far because Eddie kept asking questions like what is sorrel and where is Wyoming. After a while I closed the book. I stared at the cover and the special blue of the sky behind the horses’ heads. Eddie was fast asleep.
Chapter 12
I’d promised myself I wouldn’t look at Sarah’s diary any more, but her voice bubbled up from the pages, as unstoppable as a spring released above ground and I heard it whatever I did. Each word dripped. I wanted to snatch her hand away from Eddie’s back and smack her, hard. Where was I while she squeezed and bullied him? How could she take Truck away from him, even for a moment? I saw myself in the kitchen, stirring or wiping something, while one floor above, Sarah held him down until he stopped resisting. If only to protect him, I’d read more of what she wrote. In some ways, this is a good thing to do, I thought, opening the pages and meeting her there again.
I sat on her bed, reading, beneath the shelves of china animals and wilting rosettes, beside her hairbrush, criss-crossed with hair, and some plastic pots of eyeshadow. I caught sight of myself in the mirror, hunched over the book. I examined my reflection as though I were still subjected to the unkind magnification of her gaze. She transfigured me, like a witch in a fairy tale, until my body was lumpen. My skin became as solid and pale as set milk. Forests of hair, dark and dense, grew on my arms and legs. I could feel the flesh swelling at my waist. I stood up with difficulty as if I’d begun to melt into the furniture and would soon be stuck fast.
Chapter 13
Through his bedroom window, Eddie stared hard at the field. He knew where Truck was buried but he couldn’t see the actual spot. It was beyond the garden and the path and under the overhang of the wall. It had been hard to dig a hole in the ground. He thought it would give with ease like sand, but the first trowelling got him only as far as stones and gravel. Eventually, first crouching then kneeling, he made a large enough space to hold the toy. He left two white rocks to say where he’d been.
One day, he was going to find twigs to make a cross, replacing the stones. Next to the window frame, there was a strip of yellow paint. It was the colour of the room before it was the blue of his choice. His mother had let him decide what colour it would be painted, and he’d felt very grown up. Doing without Truck should have made him feel older, too; instead he pined like a little baby for his metal friend.
Chapter 14
‘Do you need anything?’ I say. Michael shakes his head; it’s only a little move
ment but one that takes considerable effort. It’s getting dark outside. How will he fall asleep, I think, when all he’s done is lie here? But I’ve only walked from his bedside to the toilet or the cafeteria and my eyes are tight with fatigue. I could doze where I sit.
I go to the window and depress one slat of the blind. In the block of flats opposite there’s a random pattern of dark and yellow squares, as the people living there return home. Each brighter shape represents a hand on a switch, a person in that room. I thought of Philip, turning the car into his road. ‘My landlady’s light will go on when she hears the engine die,’ he said. ‘She’s like a dog, lifting its head from the carpet.’ Sure enough, a glow suffused the dense curtain at one window. She’d moved a chair inside her room as we passed her door, squeaking it across the lino to warn us that she was listening. He’d made an exaggerated gesture to outline a large chest in front of his own. He’d put his hand over my mouth to stop me laughing and I’d licked his palm, watching his expression. In the rehearsal, we’d sung ‘Sweet Gingerbread Man’. Lying on his little bed later, we’d quoted the words of the song to each other until I had cried with laughter, burying my head in his jumper and feeling my stomach muscles ache. Nice sticky hands, sticky peppermint. ‘If you don’t stop holding me so tightly,’ he’d said, lifting my face from his chest, ‘you’ll go home smelling of turpentine.’ He sniffed my hair. ‘Too late,’ he said. The wind howled in the chimney as if a storm raged outside. Even the littlest gust sounded fierce.
In Michael’s room now, the window blind rustles and clicks as I let the slat go. I turn round ready to apologise for the unwanted sound, but Michael still sleeps. His mouth drops open and his lower lip sags to show his teeth. His lack of inhibition embarrasses me. I tiptoe into the corridor.
