The Confusion of Karen Carpenter

by Jonathan Harvey

  ‘I know. Anyway, what would you say if I told you . . . I’d seen Michael.’

  She doesn’t speak immediately. I sense a frisson of alarm.

  ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘As a ghost. If I’d seen him as a ghost.’

  ‘Sha’ap.’ Then as an afterthought she adds, her voice getting wary, ‘What you bringin’ me down here for?’ She stops mid-stair.

  We must be about halfway down. There’s no daylight, but I can still make out her face. The temperature has dropped, and I can hear the plink-plonk of dropping water.

  ‘Laura, stay here if you want and I’ll go on my own. You’ll probably think I’m mad, but . . .’

  Her breath goes funny. Like she’s working up, very slowly, to scream, but then she sneezes. It scares the living daylights out of me.

  ‘Sorry, babe!’ She goes about finding a tissue to blow her nose, which she does melodiously. Joe ‘Schnozzle’ Durante would’ve been proud to make a sound like that. She’s avoiding eye contact with me. She thinks I’m mental, but I can’t help myself. I don’t care. I’m excited. I’m about to see him, I know I am. This is where he’s going to be – he is!

  ‘I’ve seen Michael a few times. I don’t know if he’s . . . a figment of my imagination or if he’s a ghost, but I want to see him again.’

  She takes this in, looking at the ground. Then she looks up and attempts a smile. ‘Down here, is it?’

  ‘Yes. Many years ago he brought me here. We had an adventure. We drank lager and made love.’

  She makes a funny noise, a bit like someone not knowing where to put themselves when Barbara Windsor’s bra flies off in a Carry On.

  ‘This is where I think our baby was conceived.’

  ‘May she rest in peace,’ she says quickly, like an overenthusiastic nun.

  ‘Yes, may she rest in peace. Now I’ve got it into my head that Michael’s down here.’

  She makes the funny noise again.

  ‘So maybe it’s better if I go on my own.’

  Oh good. She looks so relaxed now. Like she’s being saved a huge job. Like we’re in an office and I’ve offered to count up all the pencil sharpeners and see if they need replacing.

  OK, so that’s a rubbish analogy, but I’m excited. I may not be thinking straight.

  ‘You won’t do no vandalism?’ she says, pulling her hair back cautiously.

  ‘I won’t do no vandalism.’

  ‘Is it?’

  I’m not sure how to answer that. I’m not even sure it’s a question, but I reply, ‘Is it,’ with a shake of my head.

  ‘I could get into trouble if they knew I’d shown you round, you get me?’

  ‘I get you. I really get you, and I appreciate you helping me.’

  ‘I thought you wanted a trip down Memory Lane, is it.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but it’s kind of like that as well.’

  ‘I’ll stay here,’ she says, like she’s the second in command on an expedition to discover the North Pole and she’s hanging back here in case of casualties, letting the braver of us go on and pierce the ground with my flag.

  ‘OK. I mean, he might not be here.’

  ‘Is it.’

  I squeeze her arm, then continue down the stairs, glad to be shot of her. I light the torch app on my phone to help illuminate the way, though there are some low-level lights on either side of the stairs. It all smells so familiar. Olfactory recall, I believe it’s called. And because of the familiarity, I know I am on to something here. It gets colder. I don’t remember it being this cold. I feel I am getting closer to him. I’m a kid again, and this is a game, and someone is calling, ‘Warmer, warmer . . .’ with every step, and as soon as I get to the little room downstairs, they’re going to cry, ‘HOT!’

  They are.

  I know they are.

  I, Karen Carpenter, am never wrong.

  Oh shit. I’m always wrong.

  They don’t cry, ‘HOT!’ They don’t cry anything. When I reach the bottom step and can’t go any deeper, the familiar room opens itself up to me with the beam of my torch app. It’s bigger than I remember, but he’s not here. Is he hiding?

  ‘Michael?’

  Come on. He’s got to answer me soon. He must be hiding.

  He was not a figment of my imagination. He was a ghost. A real, live ghost. Well, a real, dead ghost.

  I search for the light switch and can’t find it. I push through to a small corridor down the back. Is this the way he brought me to that other room where the people hid out in the war? I see the banister of the stairs mounting the wall at an angle. I remember that. I’m in the right place. I find the room. Exactly as we left it last time. The funny-shaped air vent. The bench. Poles coming out of the wall. But again, this room is empty. I was so, so sure he would be here. If he’s not here, I don’t know where he could be. I call his name again. It echoes oddly, like I’m in the smallest room in the world. I hear a rumbling noise and the ground shakes and I realize a Tube is passing on the other side of the wall. He’s going to come out. He’s going to step through the wall dramatically as the noise engulfs me. I’m almost faint with excitement.

  But the noise abates. It slowly dies away. The vibrating beneath my feet peters out too. And with it the hope in me also starts to fade.

  I say it again. Almost a whisper. ‘Michael. It’s me. Please. Where are you?’

  I hear a scratching behind me. I turn, shine the torch in the direction from which it’s coming. I get a shock and scream.

  A rat is staring at me. Black. Eyes like they’re lit up. Oily. Like a small cat. Sat there looking at me. My scream frightens it and it scurries off.

  Disappointment crushes me. I sit on the bench. He is not here. I have been pinning my hopes on . . . but . . . he’s not . . .

  Maybe he was never here.

  The seat is wet. My bum is getting cold and sodden.

  Maybe we were never here.

  I jump up. I know. I can find proof we were here. I scour the walls with my torch. He wrote on this wall. He wrote our initials. In a loveheart. I will find it, and by finding it, I will have found a little piece of him. Proof. Proof that I am not going mad. And then it will be like he is here.

  I can find his writing nowhere. It’s gone, vanished, washed away by the falling condensation down the brickwork of this underground cave.

  I suddenly feel very alone.

  And it hits me. He’s gone.

  And I’ll never see him again.

  ‘You’ve got to come,’ Dad hisses, looking down on me as I lie on the bed.

  ‘Yeah, well, I’m not.’

  ‘Your mother’ll kill you if you don’t. Look, she’s booked a table at . . . at . . . an Angus Steakhouse.’

  ‘Why would I wanna go to a shitty old Angus Steakhouse anyway?’ I snarl like a teenager.

  I know he’s lying about the steakhouse. At least I hope he is. I hope they haven’t organized the surprise in one of those.

  ‘You know what your mother’s like!’ he argues.

  Oh, I’ve had enough. I wave the white flag.

  ‘Dad, I know there’s a surprise party –’ his eyes widen with fear ‘– but I’m just not in the mood. I can’t. Be. Arsed.’

  ‘Who told you?’ He plonks himself on the bed.

  I’m a bit worried he’s going to start crying. I sit up. ‘Don’t make me go, Dad. I’m sorry if you’ve gone to a load of trouble.’

  ‘Oh, sod that, love. I’ve not done anything. Not been allowed. It’s all your mother’s doing.’

  ‘Is it really in an Angus Steakhouse?’ It’s impossible to hide the horror in my voice.

  He shakes his head. ‘I’ve got to take you to the Who’d’ve Thought It?’

  Blimey. Which is worse? Oh, the imagination of Mum and Meredith, planning my party in the pub nearest to the school.

  ‘Oh well, I’m definitely not going, then.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘’Cos it’s vile. Have you seen their soft furnishings? It�
��s like being in an episode of George and Mildred.’

  Dad looks away from me. I know what he’s going to say. He’s going to say I can suit myself. He’ll no doubt enjoy telling my mum that all her hard work has gone to nothing. He looks back and I’m waiting for him, a delicious smile on my face, but his look is steely. He even points his finger at me.

  ‘Now listen, you. I never put me foot down, ever, but you are going to that party whether you like it or not.’

  Oh God. You could knock me down with a feather.

  ‘There’s a load of people in that pub who think the world of you, who love you. Now, I know Michael went on a downer and killed himself, and I’m sorry about that, I really am, but he’s dead and they’re not. They’ve not abandoned you, so why abandon them?’

  I can’t answer that. He’s being so . . . un . . . Dad.

  ‘So get in that bath, put your glad rags on and slap a smile on your face, you miserable mare.’

  I have never in my life been spoken to like that before. Not by my dad.

  It’s hilarious.

  I burst out laughing. And he playfully slaps me. But misjudges it. And hurts my leg.

  But I forgive him.

  Even though I know I’ll have a bruise later.

  ‘SU-U-U-RRR-PRI-ISE!’

  Party poppers go off. Music starts to play. A mass of people cheer and I stammer in my rehearsed way, ‘Oh my God! What a surprise!’ and add in mock annoyance to my dad, and to Mum, who’s looming with a glass of something bubbly for me, ‘Oh . . . you two!’

  And then laugh. And take the something bubbly.

  I am the consummate professional. When you’re a teacher, you become adept at leaving your feelings at the door and turning in the performance of your life in front of a class of braying brats. Pointless letting them see that you’ve gone over your overdraft limit or had a row with your head of department or . . . oh, I don’t know . . . been unable to locate the ghost of your dead ex. So I turn on the Hollywood smile and the Liverpool charm and float from person to person saying, ‘Hello,’ and, ‘Thank you,’ and, ‘No, I had no idea.’ It’s good to take my mind off what happened in the abandoned Tube station. Or what didn’t happen, to be more precise. And instead of feeling impossibly crushed, I feel buoyed by the warmth and laughter around me. I could float like the balloons clustered around the top of the bar.

  I notice there is a sign above a buffet table in the corner that reads, ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY, KAREN,’ though I can see – with my teacherly eye – that whoever made the sign ran out of space, so the ‘N’ of ‘KAREN’ is half as wide as the other letters. Cards are thrust into my hand, presents pushed to my chest. I gush ‘Thank you’s and ‘You needn’t have bothered, really’s and ‘Oh God, I can’t wait to open it’s with a maintained level of excitement that, although forced, sounds impressively genuine, I have to admit. I feel like I’m on a reality show, performing a task. You have to get through this party making out you’re having the best time, and I succeed. With flying colours.

  I pile my presents up at one end of the buffet table that has been cleared for that very job and wonder if people think I’m actually forty today and not boring thirty-seven. Why such a fuss? The food is standard Mum fare: curled ham sandwiches, salmon-paste finger rolls, bowls of Wotsits, Iceland vol-au-vents . . . A massive spinach pie in the centre of the table flamboyantly fanfares that Mungo and Fionnula must be here, and indeed they are. I see them joking in the corner with a red-faced Jorgen. Oh blimey, she’s brought him. What do I tell people?

  Meredith’s poking me in the ribs and asking if I really had no idea they were planning the party of the year. My instinct is to reply, ‘Don’t big up your part!’ but I refrain and give her a hug and squeal my delight, before she drags me off to see Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mitch and Titch, who are all wearing T-shirts with an image of the singer Karen Carpenter on, which I realize is meant to make me feel touched and amused, and so I am. And Ethleen’s with them, and she too is wearing a matching T-shirt, which makes her tits look all pointy and is no doubt giving the girls a thrill. I think it’s odd she’s joined in their T-shirt japes, but ignore my surprise as she hands me a beautifully wrapped box, which is so gorgeous I have to open it there and then. I look at the card on it. Beautiful handwriting, like calligraphy – Ethleen’s trademark. But the words don’t make sense.

  To Karen,

  Happy birthday.

  Love Ethleen and Meredith xxx

  ‘Oh, you clubbed together!’ I smile, wrong-footed, and see a nervous look dart between the two of them. Then, as I rip open the leopard-print wrapping paper, to reveal a jewellery box, I see that Meredith has her arm round Ethleens waist. And is fondling her bum with her fingers, while her thumb is hitched inside the top of her jeans.

  There’s a necklace inside. It’s a pretty, dainty thing in silver with a ‘K’ hanging off it.

  As I stammer my gratitude, they know what I’ve seen.

  Meredith blushes. ‘Karen, I’ve been meaning to tell you.’

  Oh no. I am gobsmacked.

  ‘I’ve left Dick,’ says Ethleen, and the lesbians laugh.

  ‘She really has gone off Dick,’ one of the others titters, and they titter in unison like a million Muttleys.

  ‘Dick and I haven’t seen eye to eye for some time,’ adds Ethleen.

  Ah. Eileen. Ivy-Jean. Ethleen. Erm . . .

  Meredith and Ethleen are now an item, and I am the last to know.

  Oh, and I am mortified. I heard her on the phone saying she fancied someone, someone straight, and I thought it was me. And all along . . . it was Ethleen? Heterosexual, happily married Ethleen?

  So that’s why she’s been telling Ethleen stuff about me, and that’s why she was in Ethleen’s car that day.

  Oh, it’s really lovely. It’s so sweet!

  I think.

  The dirty cows.

  But even though I am amazed and embarrassed that I was so self-centred I thought Meredith only had eyes for me, I hug them and tell them I love them. Then as I part from a hug with Ethleen, I joke that ‘You better watch where you put your hands, you big lezzer!’ which makes the others howl, but Ethleen fluster. And I giggle to show I was joking. I put the necklace on to show willing, then realize my glass is empty.

  As I head to the bar, I pass Mum and Jorgen laughing and joking with Mungo and Fionnula, and see that Little Lee is with them, though there’s no sign of Sponge or Joyce. More hugs. More kisses.

  And Mum says, ‘Mungo’s been telling us all about . . . some of their hobbies.’

  ‘Yes,’ agrees Jorgen. ‘It’s really fascinating.’

  ‘Don’t be getting any ideas, now!’ I joke nervously, but Mum’s smile makes me wince and I head off to the bar.

  I feel a tap on my back and turn round to see Little Lee beaming up at me. He asks how I am and for a moment I’m vulnerable. Then I take a deep breath and tell him I’m coping. I explain I’ve been having counselling, and how I’m more positive about the future, and he tells me he is pleased. And that if I ever fancy trying Japanese rope bondage, I should give him a call. I tell him I’ll bear it in mind. It’s odd, making small talk in a pub against a backdrop of a rather loud rendition of a Simply Red song I can’t stand, when that small talk is about bereavement and loss and . . . well, bondage. But that just about sums my life up, I suppose. I kiss Lee fondly on the cheek and edge my way to the bar, squeezing between some teachers I can’t really stand but who have no doubt turned up for the free food and because they’ve heard I’ve been down and need cheering up.

  The barmaid is cracking her knuckles and hacking up some phlegm as I arrive to be served.

  I’d know her anywhere. My buttocks clench involuntarily.

  ‘Oh, Shirelle. You not working at the salon anymore?’

  She shakes her head as she gets me another glass of fizz. ‘Some bastard customer tried to sue me. Said I practically give her a . . .’ She turns to another barmaid. ‘What’s the word, Jamelia?’

  ‘Cl
iterectomy,’ Jamelia says, backcombing her hair with an Afro comb, no doubt flicking dandruff into people’s drinks on the bar.

  ‘Cliterectomy,’ nods Shirelle, nonplussed, then does a ‘would you believe it?’ shrug as she passes me my glass.

  ‘It’s polidical correctness gone mad,’ adds Jamelia.

  ‘Thassright!’ agrees Shirelle.

  I take a swig of my drink and turn to see Custard Claire heading over. My, this is a social whirl! More kissing. More hugs. She hands me her present and card, and accompanies me to the table to put them there for later. Which is when she hands me a second present. A bottle wrapped in crêpe paper, and a card.

  ‘Oh. Who’s this from?’

  ‘Kevin,’ she says, sounding a bit embarrassed.

  Oh.

  ‘O’Keefe?’ she adds, byway of explanation.

  ‘No. Yes. No, I know who Kevin is.’ She can see by the face I’m pulling that I’m awkward, and in case she doesn’t get the message, I say, ‘Awkward!’ really loudly and she looks perplexed.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t really want anything to do with him.’

  ‘Why? He’s been through what you’re going through. Sort of. You’ve got loads in common.’

  ‘Yeah, but when his wife was dying, he had, like . . . loads of different women back to the house.’

  I say it quite gossipy, though, as I’m now on my second drink. Claire looks really perplexed now.

  ‘When Toni was dying in the hospital,’ I explain, sure that will clarify things.

  ‘She didn’t die in no hospital, Karen. She died at home. And the only women what come round his house was the Macmillan nurses.’

  Oh.

  Oh shit.

  ‘Who told you that?’ Claire sounds murderous.

  ‘Oh, er . . . someone at the party.’

  ‘Which party?’

  ‘Toni’s wake. I think she’s a neighbour. Big glasses.’

  Claire is now furious. ‘Oh, Dirty Gertie. She’s a piece o’ work, Karen. Always had the hots for Kevin, and fuming he never saw his way clear to flirting with her. Take no notice of that poisonous witch. I’ll fuckin’ ’ave her!’

  Right.

  Oh God.

  Oh, but then . . .