Nelly
I’d hoped he’d be nice. He’s delightful. An amusing type of a fellow and a real sport. He serves crumpets with curd and plays Beethoven and Bach. He is a fine pianist and we are quite the duet.
I admired his roses first and then his door, painted and glossed and with a brass nameplate. Our own door is bashed and broken, the window smashed and boarded. A dreary state of affairs. He smells of talcum powder, is possessed of china cups and matching saucers. How I love to hold a teacup. He uses side plates for breads and for cakes. It was all rather wonderful. Pristine. Polished. I played the violin later. Something forced upon me in the end. Marnie must always have her way you see and with no regard for one’s temperament. If only she knew of my nightmares and of the dancing violin waking the dead from their slumber. If only she had seen them rise from their graves as I have, waltzing to a melody of my making.
Lennie
I’ve got a bad feeling about all of this.
The girls come round for their dinner every night. I don’t mind that. I like it, you know me, I love to host, but tonight at dinner I noticed Nelly and Marnie exchanging funny wee glances, a collusion right over my apple pie, a slight of sorts brought about by a very casual inquiry on my part. I asked how long their parents plan on being away. It’s been a month now, and when I think about it last time I saw them was around Christmastime before I went to the Loch.
I drove the whole way incidentally. I nearly killed myself. The weather was bloody awful. There was snow everywhere and the walk to the house? I thought I wouldn’t make it. It’s very hard to travel these days, but I don’t mind. I’ve already seen the world. The Pyramids. The Hanging Gardens. The Eiffel Tower. The Leaning Tower. Ah, Italy. My Italy. The food, the architecture, the narrow little streets in Siena always leading to gourmet heaven. I could have lived there for the rest of my life, but not you, how you loved your Scotland. If I’d known you’d be leaving me in it I might have been more insistent about settling somewhere else. This country’s a disgrace and the pensions you get these days? It’s not much of a welfare state. Thank God I don’t have to rely upon it, it’s a scandal. If the poor buggers don’t freeze to death for fear of putting their radiators on, they starve to death for fear of buying a slice of ham.
The cottage in Firemore was my consolation prize I suppose. We certainly generated enough memories there. If I wasn’t on probation I’d move there tomorrow.
As for the girls, there’s something they’re not telling me. Maybe the parents are not coming back? Maybe something else has happened to them? Maybe they’re languishing in a Spanish prison for smuggling drugs or some such. Who knows what kind of trouble those fools have gotten themselves into, but the girls know and they’re not telling. I wish they would. I don’t want to be caught unawares when the mother and father decide to make a show, but I’m getting the impression they might not be; coming back, I mean. They just don’t mention them or make comments about them, even to say where they are or a bitchy remark, they must know I’d be open to it. It’s as if they’ve erased them. If I’m being honest I just want to know how much time I have cooking dinners and listening to Bach, oh the delight Nelly brings to my home, I feel it is a beauty I don’t deserve, but I need it, the color. Is it wrong to want to know how much time I have watching television with someone, reading to, caring about someone not you, not me, waiting up for Marnie (who is up to no good with the ice cream man by the way, I wasn’t born yesterday and to think he does children’s parties)? Make your day special. Call Mick. I’d have a word if it was my place to, but what is my place? I wish they’d tell me. Perhaps the parents are just having fun in the sun. Drunk on a beach somewhere most likely, just like last time, but it’s been over a month now and that’s odd, isn’t it? I just can’t remember when I last saw either of them. Not that I miss them, but exactly how long do they plan to leave these children alone in the world?
I wonder if they’d like to go to the Loch during the school holidays. It’d do them the world of good, a nice trip away, it’s beautiful in spring and in the middle of nowhere, but the peace, it’s like no other place in the world. I could do with a break, I’ve been feeling a little under the weather these days and ever so forgetful. Of course if the bastard parents were to suddenly appear I’d be on the front page of the Sun for abduction. I’ll run it by the girls. See what they think. Would be a tonic for us all, a real tonic.
Marnie
My guidance teacher Mrs. MacLeod (middle-aged yah trying to do good among the peasants of Maryhill) said the only thing keeping me from the abyss of total delinquency is my gift for learning. Like Nelly I apparently possess qualities that she believes to be wasted on a girl “so utterly destructive in temperament”—she actually wrote that in my report—meaning I smoke and drink and have abortions, actually one abortion, but still, I have an A average that I maintain with little or no effort on my part and they despise me for it, mostly because they can’t take credit for it; in other words intelligence should be the reward of the virginal nonsmokers of the world, not some morally corrupt teenager with dead junkies in her back garden.
Even though I hate school, I still like to be there and especially after the holidays, which for me was always the worst time of the year, always having to deal with Gene and Izzy and their fucked-up Xmas Spirit. I like the orderliness of school. The routine. I find school bells strangely comforting and of course my mates go to school. Suzie and Kimbo. Not that I don’t see my friends out of school, I do, but not all at the same time. School is a more convenient way for us all to congregate in one place, also we get free lunches.
According to Mrs. MacLeod I deliberately surround myself with “undesirable elements to sabotage my development.” Of course Mrs. MacLeod knows fuck all about the elements around me and some of them I’ve had no choice over.
Anyway, before Christmas, MacLeod organized a “playdate” with Wendy Carter and Lorna Holland in an attempt to integrate me with the desirable elements of the school, girls who smell of white musk and toothpaste. We met at the library and we were supposed to form a study group. It was awkward as fuck and we had nothing in common. Their parents are accountants and lawyers and mine are buried in the yard. Anyway Wendy suggests lunch down at Burger King, which she very generously pays for and then we go for a walk at the Botanical Gardens. At first I was like, God, this is going to be so boring and then Lorna digs deep in her Louis Vuitton and produces a packet of fags and a hip flask with voddy and pomegranate juice in it, brilliant and we launch into a pretty good time, but then Lorna goes and ruins it by going on about the antioxidants in the pomegranate juice and how good it is for your skin and your weight, like that’s why we’re drinking it. Thing about Lorna is as soon as you relax in her company she geeks out on you and for about half a second you’re thinking, What the fuck am I doing here with this tube? then she offers you a fag and you remember she’s actually all right, but at the same time you’re thinking, She’s still an arse.
You certainly can’t judge a book by its cover that’s for sure, for a start the “desirables” aren’t as “desirable” as they seem. I can’t deny I was a bit shocked by the smoking and the drinking, like they’re too privileged to smoke, daft really. It doesn’t matter where you come from. We smoke because that’s what we want to do, but it doesn’t mean anything about who we are or what our futures are going to hold, but you get these teachers always seeking out troubled souls in cloudy bathrooms. It never occurs to any of these balloons that someone smoking on school premises isn’t rebelling against the system, we’re not even thinking about the system, we just want a fag. It’s a survival technique, a lot of teachers smoke but no one’s barging in the staff room judging their lives, their futures, putting them on detention.
Even though I have straight As, the smell of tobacco on my breath and an obvious lack of innocence gives them permission to shake their heads in dismay, as if disappointment and failure is a destiny I can’t avoid. I bet they never shake their heads at Lorna,
especially with her father writing big fat checks to the PTA fund-raising committee, people just don’t couple wealth with neglect, idiocy with affluence. It’s almost a waste of time having high marks when you’re me and I wouldn’t bother if it weren’t for the fact I just always know the answer to everything, which is more than can be said of Lorna, who spends more time manipulating adults into believing she possesses the virtues I’m apparently without, when the truth is Lorna’s an idiot and needs me to help her with a few academic issues she’s having. She wants me to do her homework basically and said she’d pay me.
I’m not too sure how long Lorna’s “desirable” status is going to last to be honest, she’s like a bear in a glass cage. She’s having a party this Saturday. Her parents are in Morocco. And who’s the first person she calls on her mobile? Guests? No. Merry Maids? Yes. They’re to come the next morning to clean up the mess she anticipates, foresight my second favorite characteristic next to insight. Talk about covering your deviant tracks. Definitely going to that party. Anything to get away from the smell in my house.
Nelly
What on earth is happening to the bees? They say it is an ecological disaster, an environmental holocaust.
Every day I wonder what the blazes can be causing this abuse of our ecosystem. Chemicals I hear, pesticides. I don’t understand it, really I don’t. Our planet faces extinction and yet nobody seems to care.
Am I afraid? You bet your bottom dollar I am.
Lennie
Nelly isn’t strong. She’s weak and easily bruised. Not one for screaming or shouting unless she’s sleeping and of course there’s the violin. I’d say she was beyond her years when it comes to her music. We’ve played some very pretty duets together; unfortunately I’m not the player I used to be and there are days I wonder if I can play at all. I don’t know what’s got into me this weather, I would forget my own head if it wasn’t screwed on. She’s practically a master of course and not at all like the sister, drunk every weekend, coming home in the middle of the night, singing at the top of her voice and attracting all kinds of attentions from the neighbors.
Wish Bobby would stay out of their garden. He’d dig the whole yard up given a chance.
Marnie
Kimbo and Susie turned up at the door tonight with a bottle of Tesco’s finest red. Susie had cash she’d nicked from her granny and was ready to get wasted. I’d already sent a text saying I was sick and I am, if you count a hangover. Lorna’s party was out of control. I don’t remember much and woke up in Lennie’s house. He was in a chair next to me, a bowl of sick at his feet. He made me drink a raw egg and I puked my load, but I felt better after. Then he made me a bacon sandwich and some tea. Nelly stayed out of my way, which is a good thing because she’s driving me mental right now. She’s playing truant from school and getting us noticed.
I’m also worried I might be pregnant. I came home minus my nylons the other night, I couldn’t find them anywhere. I asked Lennie if he’d put them in the wash and he got all shy and told me I didn’t come home with my nylons on, I got such a brass neck. Now he knows I’m a total slag.
I don’t think I had sex with anyone, maybe Kirkland “minging” Milligan. He’s been after me for months, maybe he knows what happened to my tights? Prick!
Anyway Susie and Kimbo show up, Susie in fake fur and Kimbo in combat trousers. Susie asked if Gene was about and it unnerved me a wee bit when she asked. I said he was on holiday with Izzy. She wanted to know where exactly they’d gone. “Turkey,” I said. Then Kimbo said they were probably trying to get away from the smell. “This house reeks of bleach and shit.” I told her we’d a bunged-up toilet. She didn’t mention it again, but she’s right, the stink of Gene is all over the place, even with this cold, it’s like he’s stuck to the walls. I didn’t want to drink tonight, but I took a wee swallow anyhow. Susie was being boring and a bit sulky, you felt like you had to drink. She was also being nosey as fuck about Izzy and Gene. The wine worked a treat but then Susie spills some on her dress and because she wants to go clubbing she heads to Izzy’s closet. I couldn’t stop her.
I haven’t been in Gene and Izzy’s room for weeks and it was disgusting. Sodden sheets crumpled on a mattress still stained from Gene’s dead body. Izzy’s makeup sprawled all over her dresser and lids everywhere. Her underwear left on the floor from where she just stepped out of them. Ashtrays full of fag ends. A half-drunk bottle of vodka. Laundry everywhere and of course the other smell. Their smell. A rancid smell of baked nicotine and stale perfume, cheap deodorant and dry alcohol. It made me nauseated. I tried to open a window, I needed air, but it was too late. I threw up everywhere. None of us wanted to stay in the room after that and so Susie grabs the red pleather skirt from a hanger in Izzy’s wardrobe and takes it to my room to try on. It fits like a glove.
Next thing Nelly walks in and sees Susie in Izzy’s clothes. I thought she was still at Lennie’s, and looking at Susie, I see what she sees. I see Izzy. Nelly totally freaked out and Susie didn’t know what hit her. It was Nelly. Kimbo had to drag her away by the hair, but then Nelly broke free and had another go. I can’t remember what I was doing, I know I didn’t help anyone. Susie’s face was all scratched and she had Nelly’s saliva all over her. Izzy’s skirt was ripped to shreds.
And this is why I didn’t want them coming around. I knew something like this would happen, it’s been looming for weeks. Nelly’s been really weird, like psycho weird, and Kimbo, she thinks we have rats in the house. She said it as soon as we left the house. She said she can smell rats like some dogs can smell cancer. She reckons one of them probably died in Izzy and Gene’s bedroom somewhere. If only she knew what had died in Izzy and Gene’s bedroom.
Nelly
Not a ghost but a thief. How dare she steal my mother’s clothes? How dare she wear my mother’s clothes? She had no business. And Marnie standing there, like it was nothing. Scallywags. A box in the ears was exactly what the doctor ordered. How could Marnie take them to their room? How could she bring them to our house knowing what she knows? It’s not to be borne. She put me in an impossible situation. Violence was entirely necessary.
Marnie
Gene was in and out of rehab for about two-thirds of his life. The last time was when Nana Lou came and locked him in his bedroom. He was such a scaredy-cat, calling for his mummy and shit. She never went near him except to feed him and maybe slap him.
Nana Lou taking care of us is the one thing in my childhood I remember best. I also remember her songs. She used to be a pub singer and sang on cruise ships after Gene fucked off. She had an amazing voice. She loved Billie Holiday and Ella Fitzgerald. Patsy Cline and Dinah Washington, stuff I’d never heard of before. When Gene got better they sang songs together all the time. Old songs mostly. I remember them dancing in the kitchen. I didn’t even know Gene could dance. He seemed like someone else with Nana Lou, someone not Gene, and Izzy hated it.
When Nana Lou was leaving Gene threw her a party. He got a karaoke machine and Nana got everyone dancing the Macarena, total strangers, but it was fun. I can still do the Macarena. Susie and Kimbo were there too, we sang Spice Girl songs and drank shandy. Nana Lou liked it when I sang. She said it made her proud. Nelly wouldn’t sing at all and no one pushed her to, she ended up falling asleep under the kitchen table next to Izzy’s feet.
Izzy hated the party and sulked all night. Mostly ’cause she can’t sing a note. It didn’t stop her making an arse of herself though, singing some crescendo-ridden love song. I remember eyes narrowing in agony, some laughter, and Nana Lou hiding smirks behind a smoldering cigarette. Izzy was so embarrassed and locked herself in the bathroom and our guests had to pee in the garden.
Izzy was so jealous of Nana and not just her singing but because she could make Gene do things Izzy couldn’t. Izzy said Nana Lou loved Gene in a way no mother should love her son, she said if Nana Lou had loved him less Gene might have been a better man. Nana Lou heard her and said zero. She always knew how to deal with Izzy. Sh
e knew when to speak and when to say nothing at all. Nana treated Izzy like she was an insect bite, the kind you can’t scratch without making it itch worse. I don’t know what she made of Nelly, she liked to read to her and teach her how to be still. Nelly wiggles her leg a lot, especially when she sleeps. One time Nana Lou took us to Rothesay on the Waverley. It’s a paddle steamer. We were on the Clyde, just sailing and she said, “Silence is power, girls.” It was an amazing thing to say and I can’t remember why she said it, but I never forgot she did. “Look at the water,” she told us. “If it could talk you’d like it less.” I liked the things she said. I liked having my hair stroked, my skin admired, and my stories listened to, being seen and being loved. Even now, after all these years, Lou’s words mean more to me than the words I’m thinking on now.
Lou stayed with us for six months, she was supposed to stay longer, but someone called William got sick. Gene was furious. He didn’t like whoever William might have been. I remember they had a fight about him and Lou cried, but then they made friends. About a year later Izzy told us Lou had died. She had a heart attack. We never went to the funeral, Izzy wouldn’t let us and neither did Gene, he was in prison at the time.
Nelly
The Death of Bees Page 4
