THE LESS THAN PERFECT LEGEND OF DONNA CREOSOTE

by Dan Micklethwaite

  You don’t know? I thought that was your job?

  No, I mean, do you want me to put it in a tray, or not?

  Isn’t it in one already?

  Yeah, but it’s kind of spilling over the top. If you don’t mind it spilling down to the bottom of your oven, then it should be fine.

  No, don’t want that. I always forget to clean it and it ends up burning next time I cook owt.

  Well, I can clean it later, if you want?

  You won’t have time later. The trays are in the cupboard to the left of the cooker.

  Ok, got one.

  Ok.

  Is this what you were wearing the other day?

  What?

  This tray. Was it part of what you were wearing?

  Why? What does it matter?

  No reason. Just curious.

  Look, if you’re going to start taking the piss, you can leave. And take your fuckin’ pie with you.

  What? What the fuck, Donna? I was only asking.

  Don’t what the fuck me. I thought we’d gone over all that. I thought you apologised and said it was cool and I thought we were leaving it at that.

  I did. I am. For fuck’s sake. I’m sorry. I’ll tell you what, I won’t talk. In fact, I think I will leave, and I’ll take my fuckin’ pie with me. How’s that? And you can give me a call or whatever when you’ve calmed the fuck down.

  Always fuckin’ happens –

  What always fuckin’ happens?

  This. Girls always just flip out and everything, when I try do something like this. Always.

  Girls?

  Yes, girls. You. You fuckin’ – you fuckin’ invite me round because, what, you’re lonely or whatever, or you just want a shag, and then as soon as I start trying to do things for you, to act like we’re in a fuckin’ relationship, you snap and start screaming at me for no fuckin’ reason –

  I’m not screaming at you!

  I’m not screaming at you.

  Shouting then. Whatever, you’re pissed off at me and I didn’t do anything wrong. All I did was ask a question. That’s all I ever fuckin’ do, just ask stupid questions.

  If that’s all you ever do, then why don’t you learn from your mistakes and stop asking them? And if you have to go home to do that, then go home.

  You know what, Donna, fuck you. I was only asking because I’m interested in you, and if you don’t want me to be, then it’s nothing that a few beers and a night in front of the internet won’t fix.

  He was bundling the pie back into the box, knocking bits of crust off as he did so.

  Once he’d forced the lid back on, he paused to down his glass of wine.

  So, what, you’re just going to walk out?

  You just told me to walk out. It’s pretty clear you like everything your own way, so, yeah, I think I’m going to go.

  What if I told you to stay?

  Are you telling me to stay?

  I dunno. Are you going to apologise?

  What the fuck? Apologise for what?

  What do you mean for what? For fuckin’ taking my pie! Bastard.

  Oh, so now you want it?

  Yeah, yeah, now I want it. I’m sure it’s every bit as special as you say it is. I’m sure it’s fuckin’ magical.

  Well, you’d fuckin’ know all about that.

  Yeah. Yeah, I would.

  Good.

  He held the pie box up, balanced on his palm.

  Then

  he let it fall.

  It crumpled open when it landed, and most of the pie-filling spilled out on the floor.

  It seemed to be salmon.

  He turned for the exit.

  Don’t you dare leave, Sammy. Don’t you fucking dare walk out that door!

  He took hold of the handle.

  C’mon, Sammy. Don’t go.

  Please.

  Please don’t go.

  Please.

  I’m sorry.

  Please.

  Please.

  42

  The uncooked pie had dried overnight, and the salmon fairly stank. It took Donna nearly half of a kitchen roll and some anti-bac wipes to clear it up fully.

  Once this was done, she took a quick swig of the leftover wine, and then headed into the bathroom again to wash her hands and brush her teeth.

  In the mirror, the condensation revealed what was left of the heart.

  Over their first coffee, neither said much.

  They had made up three times last night, and once in the shower this morning.

  He was upset about the pie, she knew, and she’d said sorry in as many ways as she could think of, but still he didn’t seem ready to talk, not properly. When the second coffee was poured, they traded a few words, two sugars and thank you, but that was all.

  He wasn’t exactly glaring at her across the table, but neither was his face lit up the way she liked.

  I put that armour on because I was bored, you know.

  Sammy looked up from his drink, cocked his head.

  I mean, I put it on because all I ever seem to do is daydream about things like that, and I just wanted to actually do it for once. To try and see how it feels, or might have felt, you know?

  Sammy kept his mouth shut, kept looking at her funny.

  I know that probably sounds crazy, trying to be a knight in ‘uddersfield, or, like, a vigilante or whatever, and it sounded crazy to me too, when I was doing it. I mean, I knew how it would look to people, I think, but I wanted to do it anyway. It’s like you said about it – you never see anyone doing anything like that in town.

  I know what I said. And I meant it. I was a bit pissed when I was typing that message, but I meant what I said.

  I know you did –

  So why did you act like you didn’t believe me yesterday? Why did you instantly jump to the conclusion I was taking the piss?

  I don’t know. It’s just, old boyfriend stuff, you know. Like, when you have a few people mess you around, you tend to think that everyone else is going to do that as well.

  What, so you’re still not over your exes?

  No.

  No?

  No. I mean, yes, I am over them. I didn’t mean it like that.

  Ok. So how did you mean it? Because I’ll tell you now, I’ve got no interest in being a rebound or a stopgap or just marking time until the next guy comes along. I’ve been that too often, and it gets old, fast. So, if that’s what’s happening here, just tell me, please. Just be kind now and tell me that. Please.

  Not like that, ok. Just calm down. All I meant was that I’d opened up to guys before about, you know, the things I like, and they’ve kind of shot it down. Like, my last boyfriend, Kirk, he didn’t get why I had so many books, and he wanted me to take them out of my bedroom, said they ‘creeped him out’. It’s things like that. It’s not you.

  Ok. But, again, I told you I was cool with all that. I said I liked it, actually. So, I don’t get why you flipped out at me like that, I’m sorry.

  I know, I know. But it’s just that –

  What? That you thought I was lying to you? That you don’t believe me when I say things to you? What?

  No, it’s not that at all.

  Because I didn’t need to take that photo offline, you know. I didn’t put it up there to embarrass you, and if I had have done, you calling me a bastard would not have made me take it down. I don’t lie about the things I like.

  I know. I’m sorry, I know I was wrong. I was just tired, and I wasn’t thinking clearly. I know you weren’t taking the piss. I wouldn’t have told you all the stuff I did if I thought you were the kind to take the piss.

  Ok. I’m glad to hear you say that. I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have dropped the pie all over the place. I shouldn’t have said the things I was saying. I do
n’t get angry like that, usually. I was tired too. I don’t like fights.

  Me neither.

  Well, just for the record, you are pretty good at them. You could go pro. Probably challenge for the title in a couple of years.

  A couple of years? You trying to start another, or just wanting to train me up?

  Train you. I’ll throw in a montage sequence in a bit, make you run up some mountains.

  Eh?

  You know, like in Rocky IV?

  Oh, right. No, never seen it.

  Never? You are missing out, lass.

  Really? Doesn’t sound like my kind of thing.

  Are you kidding? Rocky is everyone’s kind of thing. It’s fun for all the family.

  I wouldn’t know.

  Aww, Donna, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I didn’t think –

  It’s ok, don’t worry about it. I don’t want to talk about it.

  Ok.

  What I do want to talk about is how, when you dropped that pie, I think you did it just so you wouldn’t have to try an olive. I think you tried to wind me up on purpose, just so you could get out of the deal.

  Damn. You got me.

  And there was a little bit of that light in his face that she wanted.

  But you’re not getting out of it that easily.

  Aww, c’mon, it’s breakfast time. No-one has olives for breakfast. That’s grim.

  Grim or not, buggerface, you’re doing it.

  Pie’s gone, though, so you can’t keep up your end of the bargain, which is totally unfair.

  I’ll do something else as my side of the deal.

  What?

  A surprise.

  Ooh, what kind of surprise?

  You’ll find out when you’re older. Now, are you ready?

  Just so we’re clear, if I eat one olive – he held up a finger to emphasise the number – you’re going to do something, you know, for me?

  We won’t know until you eat the olive now, will we?

  Ok. Bring it on.

  Donna fetched the jar from the fridge, and when she shut the door she noticed a word on it: sorry.

  She tried not to smile as she unscrewed the lid.

  Taking an olive between finger and thumb, she shook off the excess brine and then leaned across the table.

  Say ahh.

  He opened his mouth, and she set the olive ceremoniously between his front teeth.

  Then nodded.

  He bit into it, slowly, the pimento exploding across the enamel.

  His mouth wrinkling and twisting, his eyes closing tight.

  See, you big wuss, it wasn’t as bad as all that.

  43

  Sammy left the tower block mid-morning.

  Monday and Tuesday were his days off, he said. They were kind of his own special weekend, he said. And he liked to spend most of them sleeping.

  Donna stopped short of saying he could always just sleep here. It was maybe too soon for an offer like that.

  Besides, sometimes people just needed space.

  Sometimes they needed an ocean.

  She hadn’t been near her computer all weekend, to check her emails or social networks. Not that it was likely she’d have heard much from anyone, but it was, she reasoned, always worth having a look. Online booksellers, at least, might have sent through a few updates, and she did enjoy having a scout through the deals.

  The chair sank when she sat in it, and the computer wheezed and whirred as it started.

  The light that indicated her landline phone had voicemails was flashing, sitting there in its cradle next to the screen. She remembered turning the volume off the other night.

  She wondered how many messages her mother would have left her about missing Sunday lunch.

  Eight, the phone said, when she pressed the button.

  She held the phone to her ear as they started to play.

  Hi, love, it’s your mum, just seeing how you are, and if you’re coming over tomorrow? We’d really like to see you. Bob can’t wait to meet you. (Saturday, 7:15 PM)

  Hi, Donna, it’s only me again. Can you let me know about lunch? I need to know which roast to get out. Bob fancies beef, or I’ve got a chicken in the freezer. (Saturday, 8:32 PM)

  Hi, love, are you in? Is your phone working? Listen, I don’t know whether you’d decided to come round later or not, but we’re probably going to have to put it off til next week now. Bob’s not feeling well. Call me back. (Sunday, 9:17 AM)

  Hi, Donna, love, can you give me a call back on this number I’m calling from as soon as you get this. I’ve had to go into hospital with Bob. We had to get an ambulance. Everything’s ok, love, but can you call me when you wake up? (Sunday, 11:26 AM)

  Donna, pick up. Are you in? Donna. Donna, love, pick up. Pick up the phone, I need to talk to you. Can you come to the hospital? They’ve put Bob in the Cardiac Care Unit, I don’t know what to do, they won’t let me see him. His son’s still on his way from Wales, won’t be here for another hour or something because of traffic. Please call me back or just come here, I don’t know what to do. (Sunday, 2:41 PM)

  They’re going to operate, Donna. He’s just... The machine was beeping. The monitor. His face was blue, Donna. Bloody… blue. Where the fuck are you? Donna? (Sunday, 7:22 PM)

  He’s... he’s dead, Donna. They just told – he’s dead, he’s had a heart attack and he’s dead, Donna, and his son’s here but he isn’t speaking and I don’t know what... Donna, I don’t know what’s happening. He was so healthy, he was so... Bob’s dead, Donna. I can’t go see him, Donna, I can’t look at him like this on my own. I’m at the hospital and I need you Donna need – (Sunday, 10:17 PM)

  Hello, is this the number for Donna Crick? This is Imelda, from Huddersfield Royal Infirmary. Your mother is refusing to leave the premises until you arrive, and we would very much like for you to come and collect her. We appreciate that she has recently suffered a loss, but she is upsetting some of our other visitors. Please get here as soon as you can, and ask at reception. (Today, 6:49 AM)

  44

  She skidded across the marble tiling, nearly went headfirst into the trees.

  Wait.

  Why the hell were there trees in here?

  This was an entrance hall, not a bloody arboretum.

  No. No, this was a bedroom.

  Her bedroom.

  She just hadn’t turned the light on.

  Why had she come here, though?

  She bumped into the laundry basket, and remembered.

  She reached into it, like reeling water from a well. She pulled out her jeggings and dropped them on the floor. A few pairs of knickers. A T-shirt. A silk pyjama top. Somewhere near the bottom, she found the work trousers, and after them the hoody.

  Small scraps of duct-tape still clung to both, but she figured you could only see them, really, if you knew where to look. And anyway they were the warmest, neatest things she could find at such short notice. It was an outfit she felt ok going to Huddersfield Royal Infirmary in.

  Donna Crick-Oakley had been born in that building.

  She came into the maternity ward there as a screaming pink goblin, her father had said. Had said as well, though, that she was the most beautiful goblin that anyone could have ever hoped to see.

  Once.

  A memory from before her school-life had started, when he hadn’t felt the need to test her every night, and he was the one telling the stories himself.

  Almost her earliest memory, in fact.

  She stumbled back into the kitchen, wondering if she should have another cup of coffee. She was tired from last night, worn out from cleaning. She felt like she needed something just to help her stop shaking.

  But she didn’t have time.

  She’d only been to the hospital on a couple of occasions.r />
  She remembered going there when she’d broken her collar-bone, obviously. The scratchy chair in the waiting room. The nurse calling her name.

  She didn’t remember anything at all about being born.

  She’d heard about some people who claimed to recall exactly how things had been inside the womb. Who claimed to know precise sensations from their delivery, even down to the face of the doctor who helped them break out. Claimed to have recognised them years later, without so much as an introduction.

  Donna was not such a person.

  More and more, she felt as though she imagined her past as opposed to remembering it. She had the details, the bare facts, squirrelled away like favourite quotes; using them as a foundation, she could build up the scene afresh in her mind.

  Different, a little, every time it played out.

  Even so, there wasn’t really anything that corresponded to this. That told her how to go about it.

  Except, yes, yes there was. There was the time her grandma fell. The last time. And didn’t know that she’d fallen.

  She should call a taxi, she thought. She didn’t want to mess about trying to reach the line of them that camped in the town centre. She had to have a number somewhere. A card, a leaflet.

  There was nothing on the fridge, just the letters rearranged still to say sorry.

  Perhaps on the shelves. She’d certainly made bookmarks out of weirder things.

  A lot of the books on those shelves were essentially the same story. They involved the same, or at least similar, characters. Featured similar quests, similar conclusions. Had similar enemies and perils for the heroes and heroines to face. Similar triumphs and getaways for them to enjoy.

  And yet she valued them all.

  Their sameness, their shared fantasies, shared ideals, shared logic: they were a comfort to Donna. Things if not to live or die by, then to dream by instead.

  But not one of them, not fucking one, seemed to have a taxi card sticking out of the top.

  Her mobile, she realised, feeling like banging her head against the wall. She found a number on there and dialled it on the landline, because she didn’t want them texting her back with spam. Managed to book a car to pick her up in five minutes.

  As she moved away from the desk, she tripped over the root again. The outstretched leg of the swivel chair. She went sprawling. Nearly knocked herself out. Nearly needed an ambulance to come and collect her.