Stones

by Polly Johnson

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ I say. ‘It could be you. You act so funny. Banks isn’t like that – okay?’

  Joe puffs out a breath as if he can’t believe I’m serious and walks away. Well – stuff him. He can think what he likes. That’s what I tell myself at least, but for the rest of the day I feel bad. He shared one of his secrets with me, and all I did was talk about myself. I didn’t ask about his dad or why he’s sleeping out. No wonder he walked. It’s the same when I get home. If I’ve had a bad day then it’s obviously been no better for Mum. There are two people looking in the darkened window of the shop. I tell them sorry, come back tomorrow, and let myself in. After the door closes, the house falls silent around me; so silent I hear two birds quarrelling from beyond the kitchen.

  I find Mum in the sitting room, curled up in her special chair in the window. It’s a nursing chair from when Sam and I were babies. I wonder what she’s thinking. Her head rests on one shoulder and her eyes are half closed. I think she’s been crying and that frightens me. She’s not supposed to do that.

  When she opens her eyes and sees me, she doesn’t even do the usual thing, which is to get up and pretend to be normal. Today she just gives me this smile which isn’t a smile and holds out her hand, palm spread for me to take – except I don’t take it and I don’t smile back, just walk out of the room and go upstairs.

  I suppose I was meant to hold her hand and sit on the edge of the chair and hug her while we ‘shared the pain together’ like they do in all the soaps. I don’t even know what stopped me, only that I couldn’t have taken her hand however much I wanted to. Not for all the money in the world.

  I go to my room and feel like a horrible person because I left her to it. Perhaps Dad’s right, and all I can think of is Me. I make myself think back over all the times I went to Mum for help when things were at their worst and she turned me away. I remember the parents’ evenings and concerts and sports days she ‘forgot’ to turn up for. But then I hear Banks again: ‘Thing is, your parents. They didn’t do anything wrong. Jus’ too busy dealing with stuff.’

  I flip open a magazine and stare at the pages, but it’s no good. All I can see is Mum downstairs in the nursing chair with her hand out.

  I slam the magazine down and drag my school uniform off so hard that I tear the sleeve. Then behind me, the computer beeps. Joe’s name pops up onscreen.

  JoeSteen says:

  Hi. What u doing?

  CooWa says:

  Standing here in my pants.

  JoeSteen says:

  ??

  CooWa says:

  Need 2 get out – meet me?

  JoeSteen says:

  Where?

  CooWa says:

  Pier. 15 mins?

  JoeSteen says:

  Where’s the fire?

  CooWa says:

  H8 it here. Just b there?

  I dress and go downstairs, fast. The sitting room is empty, the bathroom door is shut – Mum must be in there cleaning her face. I look at myself in the hall mirror and put out my tongue. There’s a lip gloss in the pocket of my jacket that must be months old. I put some on then go into the kitchen and open the drinks cupboard. My heart beats faster. There’s nothing in there but a little flat bottle of vodka, but I take it anyway.

  I scrawl ‘Out’ on the message board, and go.

  Joe is waiting for me by the pier. The air is nippy but the lights are shining over the pavement and the sea is a black shadow – only the sound of its hushed voice and the sudden white flash of surf on the pebbles show it’s even there. Joe’s hair catches the light above his black leather jacket. He turns, sees me, and his face breaks into a smile. Something in the air seems to change. I smile back.

  ‘What’s up?’ he asks.

  ‘Nothing now. Come on.’

  ‘What is all this? Why are we here?’

  ‘Did you have somewhere else to go?’

  ‘No, Coo, but you sounded like there was something wrong.’

  ‘There was, but it was just me. Let’s have some fun, eh?’

  He shrugs and laughs, putting his arm round my shoulders as we stroll down the pier. The wind from the sea is on my face as we walk and I feel the bottle bump in my pocket. I take it out and unscrew it. It has a strong smell but I tip it back and swig some down.

  ‘Bloody hell, Coo, what’s that?’

  ‘Vodka. Want some?’

  Joe stares at me. ‘Okay,’ he says, ‘I won’t ask. Give it here.’

  He takes a swig and makes a face. A woman going past with a man and a teenage boy stares at us. I like that. I look at her with her family and I don’t care.

  It’s only when we get to the waltzers that I realise I have no money. Joe shakes his head at the man. ‘I guess I’m paying then,’ he says, but he doesn’t really mind.

  We settle into the seat and have another drink while we wait for the rest of the people to get in. It tastes pretty disgusting but after a while it gets better. The ride starts – slow at first, so I shout at the man to go faster, faster, and Joe drags me back against the seat. Then it speeds up and we are whirling round and round so fast I can’t even laugh. Joe is crushed against me and it seems like the most fun I’ve ever had. I lean against him as we spin, one hand hugging him round the middle, and I can smell something that must be aftershave. The ride ends and we stagger off and walk the whole way round the pier. Joe changes a ten-pound note and we blow the whole lot on the slot machines. By the time we leave and go down the steps to the beach, the vodka bottle is much emptier. I feel slightly numb, and the cold air on the stones makes me feel less like laughing.

  ‘Where we going?’ asks Joe, and I have no idea. I just want to get down to the water. We walk round the long legs of the pier, down to where we can hear the sea, louder now. Joe sits down and takes out a cigarette.

  ‘That’ll kill you,’ I say seriously and walk further down to make him a pyramid of stones like Banks does. When I straighten up I find I can’t stand so well, and the light from the streetlamps swirls a little. Goosebumps come up on my thighs, and I crash down next to Joe, leaning into the warmth of his chest.

  ‘Oooh, I feel a bit pukey.’

  ‘Oh hell, Coo. Were you drinking this stuff on the way down? What’s up with you? Thought you didn’t like drinking.’

  ‘I can have some. Doesn’t mean I’m an alcoholic. Everyone can have a little drink.’ I put one arm round Joe’s waist and the other on his leg, and suddenly everything goes quiet. I shut my eyes and when I open them again, time has passed. How much, I don’t know. I lift my head and Joe glances down and smiles. ‘Thought I was going to have to carry you home,’ he says. ‘Don’t drink any more, will you?’

  I don’t want to drink any more. I realise that what I do want is for him to kiss me. It’s the thing I want most in the world. ‘I like you, Joe,’ I find myself saying, and my heart starts to charge in my chest. He looks at me for a long moment as if he’s trying to decide about something. ‘I like you too,’ he says, and raises a hand and places it on my shoulder, stroking down over my arm, his thumb brushing my breast. My hand tightens on his leg and I lift my face up to his. He must see it. What I want must be blazing out of my eyes but he’s staring at me as if I’ve grown two heads. I press my mouth on his anyway and kiss him, and I’m really into it – melting into his body, head spinning like we’re back on the waltzers – when suddenly I’m pushed away. Joe is holding me back with a strange look on his face. He did like the kiss – I know he did – except he’s pushing me away.

  ‘Coo,’ he’s saying. ‘We’re mates right, but… come on.’

  ‘Come on what?’ I say. ‘You can’t stand me! That’s clear enough.’

  I get up, trying to stand on the shifting pebbles. ‘Why doesn’t anybody want me?’ I’m shouting. ‘What’s so horrible about me?’

  Joe tries to take my arm, and he’s talking to me, but I just want to escape. In my head I can see Mum with her hand out, and me walking away. I can see Banks sitting in the r
uin. I can see my brother sitting on the pavement – and I hate them all.

  I take off along the pebbles, away from the pier and Joe. I feel sober now, as if a veil has lifted, but when I try to walk up the beach and go home, I can’t. Then – or later – I can’t make out which, I find that someone has taken my arm and I’m being marched towards the promenade. The pier seems a long way off now, the sky darker, and the stones are crashing beneath my feet.

  ‘Oh God,’ I say, ‘I feel sick.’

  ‘Be sick then, if that’s what you want.’

  Banks is by my side. Joe is nowhere. I clutch his arm and hold on and we move along together. Somewhere behind us there are footsteps and I turn my head to see, wondering if it’s Joe, but all I see is a shadow whose footsteps crunch out of time like an uncoordinated ghost. Banks turns his head, his voice rumbles and his hand tightens round my arm, and then we’re alone.

  ‘You won’t be sick,’ he says in my ear, and I think maybe I won’t.

  We sit down on a bench and I lean into the folds of his big coat and shut my eyes. He doesn’t say anything else and I can tell by his movements that he’s making a rollie, then lighting it. I hear the puff in and the huff out as he releases the smoke and I can smell the drink on him, but I don’t care. It seems terribly funny that here we are, drunk together on a bench, and then suddenly I can understand why he does it. Right now, I don’t seem to mind about anything at all.

  I doze in and out. Sometimes I’m sure that I really will puke, but it passes and I float again, spinning slightly, round and round. My hands are freezing so I tuck them against Banks’ chest and close my eyes. He shifts about a bit and hums – the vibration buzzing through his ribs like the notes from a cello – and I think I’m singing along. Sometime later we get up. I think Banks makes me. We move up the beach into blurred lights and noise. I’m tired now.

  He steers me through the streets as if I’m a difficult child or an old lady, his voice buzzing in and out of me like soothing music. Then Mum’s in front of me, and Dad, and then finally I am being sick – throwing up in the downstairs loo while someone holds my hair.

  At last, I’m in bed and it feels so cold and clean. I lie there shivering for a long time, and then fall into sleep like I have no bones, sliding beneath something that covers me over like mud.

  14.

  Thought Diary: ‘If people never did silly things, nothing intelligent would ever get done.’ Ludwig Wittgenstein.

  I like Wittgenstein now I know a bit more about him. I felt so bad this morning that I didn’t want to go out, so I Googled the man Banks told me about and that quote sort of summed it up. At the same time I was trying to ignore the orange flash of an instant message alert because it had to be Joe. In the end I gave in.

  JoeSteen says:

  Coo, are you there?

  JoeSteen says:

  Coo…?

  JoeSteen has sent you a nudge:

  Coo please – are you ok? Just tell me that.

  JoeSteen says:

  Can we talk about this?

  On and on, miles of it the same. I turn my phone off without answering. There were emails too, asking me to phone and talk, saying he was sorry, but I had nothing to say. I didn’t go to school, but this time I really couldn’t. I felt cold and sick and fit for nothing but my duvet. Mum didn’t argue, so I must have looked as bad as I felt. I slept and woke and slept, until it was dark, and now I’m laying the table though I can’t face the thought of eating. Mum has the radio on and says nothing apart from asking me to put the forks straight and not to forget the salt and pepper. She’s using the bright, breezy voice she brings out when she’s trying to pretend everything is okay when it’s not. I wonder whether I should just say I feel ill and go back upstairs, but I know a lecture is coming. It’s just a question of when – there’s no way out of it.

  Dad starts. He holds a fork loaded with cabbage and potato halfway to his mouth. Mum is looking at her plate as if the whole thing is of no interest.

  ‘Corinne,’ he says, and I know it’s serious. Corinne rather than Coo.

  ‘What Dad? Look. I know what you want to say and I assure you I feel really bad, okay? I haven’t done it before, have I? Lots of people at school do it every weekend. It was a mistake. I hated it and I won’t do it again, okay?’

  I found out a long time ago that sometimes if you say everything in one go, cover all the bases, that it stops an argument in its tracks. Dad looks confused a moment.

  ‘I’m sure you are sorry, Corinne, and I know you’re not in the habit of doing it, but we still need to talk about it, don’t you think?’

  ‘I certainly think we need to talk about it,’ Mum chimes in. ‘It’s about more than the state you came home in. It’s your whole attitude. You walk out of the house, then you—’

  Dad interrupts her. ‘Karen! Let me, please.’ He sighs, sees he’s still holding the cabbage and puts the fork down. ‘Corinne,’ he says, ‘Coo—’ and then he stops talking, just like that. I wait, but he doesn’t speak, just sits there with his head low over his plate.

  Mum looks up. ‘Mark?’ she says. ‘Mark?’

  Mum and I look at each other; we don’t know what to do.

  ‘It’s not just this—’ Dad starts to say, but Mum jumps in.

  ‘No – it’s not just this. You were seen the other day – when you should have been in school – walking with a tramp! And you were carrying beer.’

  ‘Who said so?’ I demand, but she’s not looking at me. She’s looking at Dad, where he’s still sitting with his head down.

  ‘Dad,’ I say. ‘Come on – the dinner’s getting cold. I said I’m sorry.’

  Dad looks up and starts on the cabbage again, chewing it like its grass or something. Mum begins a conversation about some woman who came into the shop and we all pretend, as always, that nothing in the world is wrong.

  After dinner, Dad goes upstairs to watch some football and I help to clean up. While I’m putting things away, Mum talks about how worried they’ve been, about how much they love me, about how it hasn’t been easy for any of us. And she wants to know about Banks.

  ‘It was good of him to see you home,’ she says, ‘but he was so much older than you Coo, and he was—’ She stops.

  ‘He was like Sam?’ I supply. ‘And I don’t know him. You should be pleased he brought me home. Anything could have happened without him.’

  Mum isn’t convinced and makes a face. ‘Anything could have happened to you with him,’ she says. ‘He was drunk! What were you thinking?’

  ‘Mum. I lived with a drunk, remember? We all did.’

  ‘Your brother wasn’t like that.’

  ‘Yes he was. He was just like Banks.’

  ‘Banks? How do you know that man’s name?’

  I make my own face, to tell her she just said something dumb. ‘He brought me home,’ I say. ‘Do you think I’d just go with anyone? Of course I know his name.’ I realise this is a stupid comment. It sounds like I’d go off with a serial killer just as long as we’d been introduced. ‘Do you think we should invite him round?’ I say. ‘To dinner or whatever – to say thanks?’

  Mum stops in the middle of putting a plate away. ‘No Coo, I don’t. We said thank you and your father gave him ten pounds to get some food. I think that’s enough.’

  We finish clearing away and I go upstairs to sit with Dad. We watch the whole of a match even though I don’t like football. We’re right next to each other on the sofa, and when a goal is scored Dad grins and looks at me. Towards the end he falls asleep but I stay there trying to remember him before all this happened, when I wasn’t angry all the time. When he’s asleep, Dad’s face relaxes and he looks the same as he did years ago, when I was still his baby girl.

  I hibernate until Sunday, when Ben and Matt knock. I wonder if Mum has called them because they insist I come out and help them choose furniture. The real mission is me of course, like always. We wander around looking at leather chairs and a table made like a pair of
lips, but they don’t buy anything. In the end they take me for coffee and cake. Well, coffee for them and only a tiny bit of cake for me.

  ‘Not hungry?’ Ben asks. ‘That’s not like you.’

  Matt looks me in the eye until I have to look away. ‘Did Mum make you come over?’ I ask him. ‘Because I hate that.’

  Matt shakes his head. ‘She only said she was worried about you. We wanted to come over. What’s up with you coming in drunk anyway? Next time, knock on our door and talk. I’ve told you – any time.’

  He pauses. He’s waiting for me to tell him what’s on my mind, and I want to, I really do. ‘It’s embarrassing,’ I say. ‘You’d laugh.’

  ‘Never,’ Matt says, and I know he means it. I want to tell him about Joe, and how I really thought he was going to kiss me, and how stupid I felt after. I want to tell them about Banks and how warm and safe I felt even while I felt sick and ill.

  I wanted to, but I didn’t.

  15.

  Thought Diary: Why don’t the people you really like, like you? Ever!

  On Monday I get up and go downstairs early. When Dad sees me, his eyes light up and he offers me some toast. I mean to ignore him as usual, but I don’t. I smile at him – just a small one – grab the toast and walk. Mum reaches out as I pass her in the hall and her finger runs over my wrist. ‘Have a good day, sweetie,’ she says.

  I don’t answer and I don’t look back, but her words form a warm, tickly ball in my stomach, which stays there all the way down the road.

  I almost bump into Joe at the corner, which shocks me. I didn’t dream he’d come, but here he is, just as if nothing’s happened. His hair is in spikes with tiny green tips to them and he’s looking at me as if I’m supposed to say something – as if all this was my fault. I’m so embarrassed I wish he’d just go away, but I guess the best thing is to act normal, as if I couldn’t care less.

  ‘You won’t get away with that,’ I say, pointing at his hair. ‘They’ll send you home.’