All the Fabulous Beasts

by Priya Sharma

  Marianne’s was a cautionary tale told to schoolgirls to scare them into keeping their legs closed. Oh, the shame, because in 1985 girls didn’t get knocked up at fifteen and deliver their dead baby on their bedroom floor, then wrap it in newspaper for their dad to find in the dustbin.

  Marianne. Soft-eyed, big-hearted and not all that bright. She’s done alright for herself though. She’s not buying economy brands. She married a builder who was much older than herself.

  She doesn’t deserve my bile. I think it’s because I’ve seen them together. Man and wife, they dote on one another. Their daughter has Marianne’s chestnut mane.

  I like shopping here because my cousin, Raquel, works on the till. She’s hard core Stapleton with a bad home dye job and a bloke that walks around with a dog snarling and straining on its harness.

  The Stapletons haven’t forgiven my rejection. They wanted to enfold me in their rough and loving bosom. And Raquel was always a bitch to me, even as a kid. Needling her at her place of work is the highlight of my week. Today I pack slowly, one item at a time, letting the queue build behind me.

  “Twenty-four eighty-one.”

  I dole out the money in an exaggerated, deliberate fashion. She chucks the money in the till as I continue to pack. Her supervisor’s looking over to see what the delay is. Raquel cracks first, snatching up a plastic bag and shoving things in, not caring about weight distribution or breakage. I’ll repack it outside but now I can walk out with a smile.

  Marianne’s the only one in the queue who understands my victory. The other shoppers are interlopers, so they won’t know. Raquel was a bitch to her too. Marianne winks at me. Or maybe she’s just got something in her eye.

  *

  Eventually primary school couldn’t contain us. Soon we’d be divided, you to Sandbach School and me to Sandbach High School for Girls. The latter was a strange beast, an all-girls’ comprehensive.

  “You’re wrong, thicko.” You gave me a Chinese burn beneath the desk.

  We were arguing over a maths problem but what we were really arguing over was that I’d gone off to play British Bulldog instead of playing football with you. I should’ve been outraged by your violent jealousy but I was secretly pleased. Just to show you that I wasn’t to be bullied and that I wasn’t going to share you either (not your freckles or hazel eyes), I stabbed you in the thigh with my sharpest pencil.

  You yelped.

  A board duster flew across the room. You were inches from concussion.

  “Both of you. Outside. Now.”

  We held hands as we waited for our sentences. Mr Nelson, headmaster and tonsured despot, metered out harsh punishments for our own good. They involved a slap or a caning. Teachers used to be able to do that.

  I understand that he retired early and went to Africa to terrorise children there with the threat of God.

  *

  I go to the grave every week. St Mary’s stands at the top of town, looking down. It’s a dark and handsome church.

  I carry an armful of flowers along the high street. Its commercial landscape has changed. This shop used to be Woolworths. That one a record shop which belonged to Neil Rivers, the guitar teacher. Now there are discount stores and places to buy e-cigarettes and mobile phones accessories. The wool shop is still by the church, which amazes me as Minnie must be at least seventy and no-one knits when you can buy a sweater in Asda for £8. She always waves me in when she sees me.

  Your mum was a lovely woman. Consummate knitter.

  Schoolgirls crowd the pavement. It’s home time. I don’t know if I envy or pity them. They’ve no idea what’s ahead. I used to be haughty and immortal too, wearing the same uniform with the stylised Sandbach Cross design on the blazer pocket in blue, white and gold.

  They’re out in such numbers that I’m forced off the kerb. Blood sloshes over my boots. The town was granted rights to a Thursday market in Elizabethan times. An event, decimated by supermarkets, that was once the busiest day of the week. So many people. So many lorries coming through the town. Accidents were bound to happen. A woman went under an eight- wheeler. Bystanders were sprayed and splattered as her neck and chest were crushed. Her body flailed and twitched as it was dragged down the street. Her head was sent rolling. I read somewhere that an adult’s body holds five litres of blood but that amount’s been magnified by the drama of her death. Now the gutters run with it.

  St Mary’s Church is opposite the Old Hall Hotel, notorious for ghosts. It’s been on television. I’ve been in there. The hauntings have been diminished by antiquity to pale, apologetic shades that I barely register.

  In the cemetery I talk to mum as I change the flowers, even though she’s not there to hear me. Her funeral was a blur, except for Grandma Burnham. She disapproved of Mum’s marriage. She wouldn’t have my dad, not at any price.

  Grief needs blame. Grandma never shed a tear that day. She had an iron spine. Instead, she stared at the Stapletons who’d gathered on the opposite side of the grave as if it was them that shot Mum, not Dad.

  *

  “Get that filthy thing off the table,” Mum tutted at Dad.

  It was March. I sat in the kitchen, studying for my A-level exams. Dad had put a toolbox before me.

  “It’s not filthy. It’s brand new. It’s for Cheryl.”

  He opened it and laid out its contents like a wise man presenting gifts; a bicycle repair kit, wire cutters, a wrench, nails and screws. A hammer. Batteries in various sizes.

  “What will she want with all that?”

  “It’s for her to take to university.”

  “Oh, love, she doesn’t want all that rubbish.”

  “It’s not rubbish,” he snarled at her.

  I dropped my biro.

  “Look, you’ll need this stuff.” He bent to retrieve the pen. “I’ve been thinking. When you’ve finished studying and come home, I’ll teach you to drive. I’ll have saved enough to get you a car. It’ll be a banger but I’ll get it running.”

  “She won’t come back,” Mum was still smarting from how he’d spoken to her, “not if she’s got any sense.”

  “Just shut up, will you?”

  “Don’t you dare talk to me like that.”

  “But it’s okay for you to talk to me anyway you want?”

  I slipped out as their voices started to rise, and rang you.

  “They’re fighting again.”

  “I’ll come and meet you. Where are you?”

  “The phone box near The Limes. I don’t know what’s wrong with them. Dad scares me.”

  Dad couldn’t afford to buy me a new car or lots of clothes but he taught me everything he could—how to mend a bicycle puncture, to check oil levels and tyre pressures on a car, change spark plugs, to pitch a tent.

  Dad weighs heavily on me, despite his absent ghost. Yet it’s shameful that for all my guilt it’s you that fills my mind the most.

  *

  It was July. Hot. Dad was in t-shirt and shorts. The scar that wound around his right leg had healed in an ugly ridge, like a worm had burrowed under his skin and died there. The bone beneath had set but his limp curbed his career as a squaddie. Such are the caprices of motorbike accidents.

  “Go and put some clothes on.”

  I’d climbed out of bed and come straight downstairs still wearing the t-shirt that I slept in. It fell to mid-thigh.

  “I said get dressed. Don’t parade around like that.”

  Mum carried in a plate of eggs and sausages.

  “Don’t go on at her all the time, eh, love?”

  Dad loaded his fork with a disc of pink sausage and dipped it into a yolk. Yellow ran across the plate. “Michael’s dropping his car off at six.”

  Michael—your father. Affable. He was the one who usually dropped you off at ours when you were little.

  Dad sliced off a wedge of rubbery egg white.

  “You haven’t forgotten, have you?”

  “Forgotten that he’s too cheap to get it done at a garage?”
r />   “Yeah, his Beamer will look shabby next to your Escort.”

  Mum, teaser and japer. Fun outside, biting indoors. Dad loved that Ford Escort RS2000. He’d done all the work on it himself. How she must have cut him.

  Dad pushed his plate away and climbed into the overalls laid out on the back of the armchair.

  “Dad, can I go out with Pete today?””

  “No.”

  “Why not?” That was Mum. I wouldn’t have dared. He’d become so touchy.

  “Because I said.” He smoothed down his hair.

  “Cheryl’s not got many friends. You know that.”

  “Mum!”

  “It’s good she’s got Peter.”

  “I said no.”

  “They’ve known each other since they were kids.”

  “They’re not kids anymore.”

  “He’s a nice lad.”

  “Stop bloody contradicting me.” He turned on her, the colour rising in his cheeks. He tried to soften it when he saw the look on my face. “I’ll be back for six. Let’s do something nice tonight. Get a chippie tea.”

  Mum made us toast after he’d gone.

  “Go out with Peter. Just make sure you’re back before your dad, okay? Otherwise my life won’t be worth living.”

  “Thanks, Mum.” I kissed her and ran upstairs to get ready. How selfish youth is.

  *

  Summer has never lasted as long as that one, when we were young enough to have days to waste. A-levels were done and we were waiting for the results.

  On the day I went behind Dad’s back we lost our virginity beneath The Cloud. It’s a phrase I loathe. I didn’t lose my virginity. It was a gift to you.

  Bosley Cloud, the hill that’s at the Cheshire-Staffordshire border, rose above us. We lay in a sloping field, shaded by a copse of trees and hidden from the hikers above us on the hill. Insects buzzed about us in the long grass.

  “So you didn’t tell your dad you’re with me?”

  “He’d do his nut.”

  “Why does he hate me so much?”

  “He hates everyone. Mum loves you though.”

  That made you smile. The adoration was mutual. You rolled from your side, onto your back. I put my head on your chest. Your breathing paused and then restarted.

  In my sweetest dreams I’m there again, feeling your warmth on my cheek and the depth of your sigh. Such is your power over me, even in my sleep.

  “Cheryl?”

  “Yes?”

  “We’ll still see each other when you go away, won’t we?”

  “I won’t be going anywhere if I don’t get the grades.” I had a place at Durham.

  “Of course you will.”

  “Promise me that you won’t run off with some girl from the bank?” You’d got a job at Barclays Bank on the high street.

  “Never.” You sounded so sincere. It’s funny how we imagine that some things are unbreakable.

  “It’s not too late to change your mind. You could go to university too. Go through clearing.”

  “I’m not as smart as you.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  You were the only person I didn’t want to get away from. The only one who didn’t want to keep me in my place. You didn’t care about my Stapleton and Burnham heritage. I was just Cheryl.

  I kissed you, with all my belief in you. You kissed me back. We both pulled away, shocked by the act. The shadow of adolescence was still on you, but manhood had changed your mouth and skin. You touched my cheek and it made me gasp. Desire mounted. Our kisses grew more confident, firmer and deeper.

  The weight of your body surprised me. It was delicious. You thought I couldn’t breathe so you took your weight on your elbows. My body ran ahead of my mind, moving with yours. I thought I’d turn to water and run down the hill side.

  Parts of you came in and out of focus. I couldn’t take you all in. Eyelashes. Sinews. The taste of you. The line of your jaw. The sun through the trees dappling your skin.

  We had sealed our promise to one another. Afterwards we were shy and courteous, as if seeing each other anew. We went up to the top of Bosley Cloud, the hill at the border, having crossed a border of our own, and looked down at the patchwork fields, the lanes and villages. Our green county. My heart spread out before you like the Cheshire plain.

  How I long to feel that again. The connection of skin on skin, soul on soul. Except, I no longer know who I am. It’s useless, fucking young men like Jake in search of you when I need to be looking for myself.

  *

  “We’re going to be late.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “No, it’s not fine.”

  The inside of my chest felt cold. We hit every red light and got caught behind every slow driver on our way home from The Cloud.

  “I’ll come in and talk to him,” you said.

  “No, don’t. Please. You don’t know what he’s like.”

  “He never used to be like that. He used to like me.”

  “Just drop me at the corner. Please.”

  We approached my road. As we turned I saw your dad’s BMW that was in the drive. It was twenty to six.

  “Just drop me here. “I leant over for a kiss. “I’ll call you.”

  “I might as well come in. My dad’s here. I’ll drive him home.”

  “No.”

  “I won’t skulk around like we’ve done something wrong.”

  You followed me up the drive.

  Your dad and my mum sat at the kitchen table. Mum wore a t-shirt and a denim skirt, which showed off well-shaped calves and ankles. Her throaty laugh filled the kitchen.

  “Hello, what have you two been up to?” Your dad smiled at us.

  My face burned as though he’d caught us out.

  “We’ve been up on The Cloud.”

  “It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?” My mum looked at Michael, not us, as she said it.

  “Yes, yes it is.” Michael’s face was bright and open. He looked cool in his crumpled linen shirt.

  Mum didn’t seem concerned that dad could be home at any moment. She seemed distracted.

  The kitchen darkened, my dad at the window looking in. When he came in he kissed mum, full on the mouth. His overall was sweat stained at the small of his back and his armpits.

  “Gavin,” Michael nodded.

  Dad stared at you.

  “Mr Stapleton.” Peter wouldn’t be cowed.

  “Peter’s here to drive his dad home.” Mum’s lie was smooth.

  “Yes, that’s right.” Michael’s response didn’t sound as convincing. Better he’d said nothing. “Thank you for doing this, Gavin, I appreciate it.”

  He put the car keys on the table.

  “I think it’s the alternator.”

  “Really?” Only I could see Dad’s derision at Michael for trying to speak in the language of trades. Michael didn’t know about Dad’s hierarchy. Real men worked with tools, not in offices.

  Mum got up and started to throw things into her handbag.

  “Work phoned me. Nessa’s rung in sick. I’ll have to go in.” She was a barmaid at The Red Fox. “Will you give me a lift, lads?”

  *

  I stood on the path with Dad.

  “I’ll drive.” Michael held out his hands.

  You threw the car keys over the bonnet and he caught them. Then you moved towards me but I stopped you with a frown and a slight shake of the head. The longing on your face made me feel naked. Now, I wish I’d run to you and threw my arms around you.

  “Bye, Cheryl.”

  “Bye.” Those were our last words to one another. I stuck my hands in my pockets.

  You climbed into the back of the car. Michael held the passenger door open for Mum and closed it after her. Dad stood looking at the road long after you’d all gone. I went back inside.

  When he finally followed, I was in the hall, gazing in the mirror, trying to see if I’d changed. What did Dad see on my unguarded face? Triumph? Pleasure? Could he tell that I wasn’t
his little girl anymore?

  He ran upstairs, the sound uneven as he favoured his good leg. I heard wood splintering as he smashed in the false back on the wardrobe. When he came down he was carrying a shotgun. I didn’t even know he had one. I stood in the corner of the hall, back to the corner.

  “Stay here.”

  He yanked the phone from the socket and smashed it against the wall. The plastic shattered, sending shards across the carpet.

  The Escort’s engine roared into life, Dad revving too high. He was in pursuit of you. I knew that I had to move, to run to a neighbour and call the police, but I was rooted to the spot as if Stay here was a spell not an order. Dad’s directions have kept me stuck in Sandbach and it was then that my soul cracked and the dead came pouring in.

  *

  Dad died on the floor of his prison cell. He had a fit and swallowed his own tongue.

  The fit was caused by a meningioma. I looked it up after the inquest. It’s a slow growing, benign brain tumour. Except it’s only benign if it doesn’t fucking kill you. It caused an insidious change in him, from the young optimist that mum married to someone unreasonable and aggressive. I’d be unreasonable too if I had a lump the size of a lemon squashing my brain.

  Dad was dying and I was too busy with myself to see the change. He was dead from the minute he pulled the trigger. Or when he picked up the gun. No, it was when he ran upstairs to get the shotgun and I didn’t do a thing to stop him.

  *

  Marianne must be waiting for me. We’re in canned goods. Her daughter’s not with her today. She steers her trolley towards me so quickly that I’m pinned against the tinned tomatoes. I try not to look at the squalling purple baby, without success. That look seems to decide her.

  “Poor poppet,” she says under her breath. “He never settles.”

  I drop the can I’m holding and she stoops to pick it up and hands it back to me. I’m not the only one who sees. Did her sight start when her water broke, or was it when she took her dead son in her arms?

  “What’s his name?” I ask.

  “Ian.” It contains all the love she bears him. How hard it’s been for her, carting his ghost around with her all these years. I’d have gone mad, coward that I am. I’ve not dared to look at your car properly. Not even once.