Perfect

by Rachel Joyce

  She laughed. There was something defiant about it, though, that suggested she did not find herself or her situation funny. Diana joined in, only hers was a generous, public laugh that said, Isn’t she wonderful?

  ‘But you can’t always have what you want,’ said Beverley.

  Andrea leaned towards Deirdre. She spoke behind the flat of her hand though Byron could hear and so, he was sure, could Beverley: ‘Is she from the House? Staff?’

  In the silence Beverley dug her teeth into her lower lip until it lost all colour. Her eyes blazed.

  ‘Beverley is my friend,’ said his mother.

  The remark seemed to invigorate Beverley. To Byron’s relief, she swooped to her feet, only she seemed to have forgotten about the hat and her foot went straight through the brim. The new mother stifled a laugh. Beverley patted her hat on to her head but the floppy hat didn’t flop any more. It hung. Catching the new mother’s smile, Andrea smiled too, and so did Deirdre.

  Beverley sang, ‘Well goodbye, everyone. Nice to meet you.’

  Few replied.

  ‘It was lovely to see you again,’ said Diana, shaking her hand.

  Beverley was about to turn when she appeared to remember something else. ‘By the way,’ she said. ‘Good news. Jeanie’s on the mend.’

  The women stared back at her in the way they might look at a broken pipe, as if something needed to be done about it but by paid help and not themselves.

  ‘Yes. Jeanie’s my daughter. She’s in her first year at school. Not Winston House, just the local. But she was hurt in an accident. Involving a car. The driver didn’t stop at the time but there’s no hard feelings. They came back in the end. And nothing broken. That’s the main thing. Nothing apart from skin. She had a stitch. Two actually. Two stitches. That’s all.’

  An almost palpable discomfort settled over the table. The mothers shifted in their seats, they exchanged small glances, they checked their watches. Byron couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He thought he was going to be ill. He stole a glance at Diana and immediately he had to look away because her face was so devastated she looked empty. When would Beverley stop? Words spilled out of her. ‘She has a limp but things are getting better. They get better every day. Be careful, I keep saying, but she doesn’t listen. It’s different, of course, when you’re five. If it was me, I’d be lying down. I’d be in a wheelchair, knowing me. But you know what kids are like. They don’t stop.’ Glancing at her watch, she said, ‘Is that the time?’ It was a cheap Timex, with a frayed fabric strap. ‘I must be off. See you soon, Diana.’ She walked so defiantly across the restaurant floor that when a waitress emerged with a tray there was almost a collision.

  ‘What a character,’ said Andrea at last. ‘Where on earth did you meet her?’

  For the first time Byron turned to face his mother. She sat erect, as if she had a pain somewhere deep inside and was afraid to move.

  ‘In Digby Road,’ she said quietly.

  He couldn’t believe she had come out with it. She looked on the verge of confessing everything. Byron started to make a noise that was not exactly words, it was more like cramming the silence with indiscriminate sound. ‘Oo oo,’ he said, hopping from one foot to the other. ‘My teeth hurt. Ouch.’

  His mother plucked up her handbag and stood. ‘Come along, Byron. We’ll pay on our way out. And by the way—’ Yet again, she broke off from the path she was supposed to be on, and turned in the direction of Andrea: ‘Your sofa. It isn’t nigger brown.’

  ‘My dear, it’s a turn of phrase. It isn’t offensive.’

  ‘It is, though. It’s very offensive. You should be more careful.’

  Scooping Byron’s hand in hers, Diana steered him away. Her heels rang against the marble floor. When he glanced back, he saw the shade of menace on Andrea’s face, the look of mouth-parted shock from the others. He wished he had not fetched a chair for Beverley. He wished Diana had kept quiet about Andrea’s sofa. Of all the women to upset, he couldn’t help fearing his mother had chosen the worst.

  They searched throughout the gift department but there was no sign of Beverley. ‘Maybe she went straight home,’ he said. His mother kept looking. She took the stairs to the toy department and also the Ladies’ powder room and when it was clear Beverley had gone, she gave a long sigh.

  ‘Two stitches. Two stitches, Byron.’ She held up two fingers, as if she had forgotten he could count. ‘Not one, but two. We need to go back.’

  ‘To the tearoom?’ It didn’t seem her best idea.

  ‘To Digby Road.’ This was even worse.

  ‘But why?’ he said.

  ‘We need to check that poor little girl is all right. We have to do it right now.’

  He tried to persuade her that he needed the lavatory and afterwards that he had a stone in his shoe. He said they would be late for the dentist but there was no distracting her; she seemed to have forgotten his appointment entirely. They arrived in Digby Road with a jigsaw, a bottle of Bell’s whisky for Walt, and two new dressed blue lambs in boxes for Beverley, sharing a selection of musical instruments, woodwind and string. This time his mother parked right outside the house. A passing young man asked if she wanted the Jaguar cleaning. He had no bucket and no cloth.

  But ‘Thank you, thank you,’ she cried. It was as if she was flying above the surface of things. She ran down the garden path, click, click, and rapped with her bare hands at the door.

  When Beverley appeared, he was shocked. Her face was so red it was swollen and her eyes were tiny raw puffs. She wiped her nose repeatedly, pinching it between her handkerchief and apologizing for the state of her. She said it was a summer cold, but black lines slanted her face like drips where she had rubbed her nose and her cheeks.

  ‘I should never have come over. I should never have said hello. You must think I’m such an idiot.’

  His mother proffered the new bag of gifts. She asked if Jeanie was at home. She asked if she might say hello. She was so sorry about the stitches, she said. If only she had known—

  Beverley interrupted and took the handles of the bag. ‘You’re too kind. You didn’t need to do this.’ She peered inside and her eyes widened.

  It was only when Diana explained she had put in a note with her telephone number that Byron shared Beverley’s surprise. He had no idea she’d done that. It was a decision she had made without telling him and he wondered when she had done it and how.

  ‘But why didn’t you tell me?’ his mother was saying. ‘When I came before? Why didn’t you say about the two stitches?’

  ‘I didn’t want to upset you. You seemed so nice. You’re nothing like those other women.’

  ‘I feel terrible,’ said his mother.

  ‘Jeanie’s leg only got worse after your visit. I took her to the doctor and that was when he put in the stitches. He was very kind. She didn’t cry with the needle or anything.’

  ‘Good. I’m glad.’ His mother looked wretched, keen to get away.

  ‘At least there’s one thing.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘At least you came back this time.’

  ‘Yes,’ murmured Diana.

  ‘I don’t mean that in a horrible way,’ said Beverley, all in a rush.

  ‘No, no, I know,’ said his mother, all in a rush back.

  Beverley smiled and again Diana apologized. If there was anything she could do, ‘You have my telephone number. You must ring. Any time.’

  To their astonishment, Beverley made a reply that was halfway between a laugh and a shout. ‘Oich!’ she went. Byron couldn’t think what the noise meant until he followed the path of her fast eyes and landed on the roadside. ‘You’d better run,’ she said. ‘That little sod is trying to break into your car.’

  They drove away and this time he and his mother did not share a word.

  4

  Father Christmas

  THE OUTFIT IS Mr Meade’s idea. He slides it carefully from its plastic packaging. Mrs Meade has ordered it from the internet. The velour su
it comes with its own white beard, plastic belt and sack.

  ‘You can’t be serious,’ says Paula.

  But Mr Meade says he is very serious. Health and Safety are on his case. If Jim wants to keep his job, he has to do it in a chair.

  ‘Why can’t he have a wheelchair?’ says Paula.

  Mr Meade says Health and Safety will not allow a cleaner in a wheelchair on account of the further Health and Safety issues. Supposing, for instance, he runs over a customer?

  ‘It’s a café,’ says Paula. ‘It’s not a race track.’

  Mr Meade clears his throat. He is looking mulled-wine warm. ‘If Jim wants to stay, he’s going to have to sit in a chair and wear the outfit. And that’s the bottom line.’

  However, there are further complications. Despite the fact Mrs Meade has ordered the deluxe outfit in an X-Large size, the hems of the trousers do not reach his ankles and the mock-fur-trimmed sleeves hang between his elbows and wrists. There is also the issue of the blue plaster cast on his foot and Jim’s skeletal thinness inside the X-Large jacket.

  When he hobbles from the staff changing room, they gawp at him as if he has crashed through the ceiling.

  ‘He looks terrible,’ says Paula. ‘He looks like he hasn’t eaten for a year.’

  ‘He’ll scare everyone off,’ pipes up Darren. He has spent the entire day in the café. Paula brings him hot drinks when Mr Meade isn’t looking. ‘He’ll have the kids in tears.’

  Paula rushes downstairs to the store. She returns with boots and white gloves, as well as several square cushions from the home interiors department. She looks the other way as she slips the padding beneath Jim’s jacket and secures it with festive ribbon.

  ‘Maybe tinsel would help?’ says Darren. ‘On his red hat or something?’

  Paula fetches tinsel. She circles it carefully round Jim’s head. She makes short humming noises as she goes.

  ‘Now it looks like he’s got an aerial,’ says Darren.

  Jim is positioned beside the young brass band at the foot of the stairs. His chair has been draped with plastic ivy that sparkles. A collection bucket is placed in front of his plaster cast in order to hide it. It is Jim’s job to hand leaflets to shoppers, advertising cut-price Christmas gift ideas in the home department. These include leaf vacuums for the man in your life and foot massagers for women. Mr Meade, Paula and Darren stand with their arms folded, surveying the scene. Jim actually looks quite sweet, says Paula.

  ‘Just make sure he doesn’t open his mouth,’ says the general manager, appearing through the automatic doors. Mr Meade promises Jim won’t.

  ‘ ’Cause if I catch sight of him scaring customers …’ continues the general manager. She is an angular woman in a black suit. Her hair is pulled so hard into a ponytail that even her face looks scraped. ‘If I see any of that, he’s out. You understand?’ She swipes her finger across the white of her throat as if she is slicing it.

  All three of them nod vigorously and head back upstairs. It is only Jim who sits very still.

  Every Christmas there was a tree in the television room at Besley Hill. The nurses put it by the window with the chairs circled round it so that all the patients could see. There was even a visit from local schoolchildren. They brought wrapped presents and they sang carols. The residents were not allowed to touch the children or frighten them. In turn, the children stood in their school uniforms with their hands clasped tight and their eyes very wide, on best behaviour. Afterwards the nurses handed out the presents and told the residents to say thank you, only the children frequently misunderstood and clamoured ‘Thank you’ instead. One year, Jim’s present was a tin of pineapple chunks. ‘Aren’t you lucky?’ said the nurse. She told the children Jim loved fruit and he said, Yes, he did, only the words wouldn’t come fast enough and the nurse said them instead. When it was time to go, the children pushed and jostled their way out, as if the door was too narrow, and the space beneath the Christmas tree was suddenly so empty it felt ransacked. Several of the patients cried.

  Jim watched from an upper-floor window as the children boarded their bus. When three of the boys turned round and noticed him, he waved and then he held up his tin of pineapple chunks so that they would remember who he was and that he liked his Christmas gift. The boys made a sign with two fingers.

  ‘Loony!’ they shouted. And they made startled faces, as if they were being fried.

  The youth brass band, it turns out, have a medley that only really includes three songs. They can do ‘Jingle Bells’ and ‘Away In A Manger’ as well as ‘She’ll Be Coming Round The Mountain’. This last is clearly their favourite and the pimply young man on cymbals shouts out ‘Yee-ha!’ every time they collide with the chorus. A tall green-coated woman marches through the door and past Jim. She stops suddenly and does a double-take.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ she says. ‘What have you come as?’

  Jim is about to offer a leaflet when he realizes with a flood of panic who she is and another flood of panic that he is dressed in red velour with a mock-fur trimming.

  Eileen undoes the big green buttons on her coat. The fabric shrinks back, revealing a purple skirt that puckers at her waist. ‘So how’s things, Jim? Still here?’

  He attempts to nod as if being here is the thing he most wants. A passing shopper throws money in his bucket and Jim hides his large blue foot behind his more conventional trainer.

  She says, ‘I was hoping I’d find you.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘I wanted to say sorry. About the other week.’

  He can’t look at her he is shaking so hard.

  ‘I didn’t see you. You came out from fucking nowhere. You were lucky I didn’t hit you.’

  Jim tries to pretend he is cold. He tries to pretend he is so chilled he cannot hear properly. ‘Brrr,’ he says, rubbing his hands, although the gesture is so frantic he looks like a man washing his hands with invisible soap.

  ‘You all right?’ she says.

  Fortunately the band begins a lively rendering of ‘I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day’ and she cannot hear his answer. This is not one of their rehearsed numbers. There are disagreements over tempo and also the length of the chorus so that one half of the band plays an entirely different set of notes from the other. Inside the supermarket, the general manager peers towards the foyer. She adjusts a mouthpiece and talks into it. Jim makes a swiping movement across his neck only the white beard is in the way. ‘Can’t t-talk.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ says Eileen. ‘You’re covered in frigging tinsel.’ She glances in the direction of the manager and fetches a trolley. He admires the way she steers it, purposeful and fast. He admires the way she stops to examine a potted poinsettia and afterwards pulls such a face at a toddler that he kicks his feet and laughs.

  On her way out Eileen drops something into his bucket. It is one of his leaflets. She has written all over it in capitals: I WILL WAIT 4 U IN CAR PARK AFTER WORK!!!

  The capital letters shout themselves in his head. He studies the abundance of exclamation marks and wonders what they mean. If the message is in fact a joke.

  5

  The Afternoon Visit

  JAMES WAS DEEPLY troubled by the news of Jeanie’s two stitches. ‘This is not good,’ he said. ‘It does not reflect well on your mother.’

  ‘But the accident was not her fault.’

  ‘All the same,’ said James. ‘If there is evidence of an actual wound, it makes things more complicated. Supposing Beverley goes to the police?’

  ‘She won’t do that. Beverley likes my mother. My mother was the only one who was nice to her.’

  ‘You are going to have to watch closely.’

  ‘But we are not going to see Beverley again.’

  ‘Hm,’ said James, and he twiddled his fringe to show he was thinking. ‘We have to set up a further meeting.’

  The next morning Byron and his mother were walking up through the meadow after feeding the ducks. Lucy was still sleeping. Diana had climbed the
fence to fetch eggs, and they carried them, one each, treading carefully through the grass. The sun was not yet fully risen and, caught in the low, weak shaft of light, the dew shone silver over the meadow although the crust of earth beneath was hard and cracked. The ox-eye daisies made white pools on the lower hills while every tree sprang a black leak away from the sun’s light. The air smelt new and green like mint.

  They talked a little about the summer holidays and how much they were looking forward to them. His mother suggested he should invite a friend for tea. ‘It seems a shame James doesn’t come any more,’ she said. ‘It must be almost a year.’

  ‘Everyone is busy. We have the scholarship work.’ He didn’t like to mention that, since the pond episode, James was no longer allowed to visit.

  ‘Friends are important. You need to look after them. I had lots once but I don’t any more.’

  ‘You do. You have all the mothers.’

  For a moment she said nothing. Then she went, ‘Yes.’ Her agreement was flat, though, as if she wasn’t inside it. The rising sun threw stronger batches of light over the moor and its purples, pinks and greens began to shine so bright they looked painted by Lucy. ‘If I have no friends it’s my own fault,’ she said.

  They walked on in silence. His mother’s words made him sad. It was like discovering he had lost something important without noticing he had dropped it. He thought of James’s insistence there should be another meeting with Beverley. He remembered too what his friend had told him about magic: how you could make a person believe a thing by showing them only one part of the truth, and hiding the other pieces. His pulse began to rush. He said, ‘Maybe Beverley could be your friend.’

  His mother looked blank. Clearly she had no idea who he meant. When he explained he was thinking of the lady from Digby Road, she laughed.

  ‘Oh no. I don’t think so.’

  ‘Why not? She likes you.’

  ‘Because it’s not that simple, Byron.’

  ‘I don’t see why. It is for me and James.’