Flamingoes in Orbit

by Philip Ridley

  ‘How did that happen?’ he said. ‘I made extra sure I kept the knot in place.’ He held the tie out to me. ‘Could you . . . ?’

  ‘You want me to put it on for you again?!’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Oh, all right, all right. But you really must learn how to do it, Trey.’

  He stood in front of me, still buttoning his shirt. He buttoned all the way to the top and grinned.

  ‘You can leave this one open, if you like.’ I unbuttoned his top button.

  ‘But you said – ’

  ‘It suits you better.’

  I lifted his shirt collar and put the tie around his neck. I inched closer to him. I moved my leg slightly. My knee touched his knee. I was tying the knot much slower than last time. Trey was looking at me now, and I was gazing at him. The tie flapped and lashed between us. I touched his neck with my knuckles . . . once . . . twice . . . and, as I straightened the final knot, I stroked his neck and –

  ‘Okay, okay.’ Trey pushed my hand away and stepped back. ‘What the fuck’s going on?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘I’m just doing your tie. Like you asked me to.’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ He picked up his blazer and struggled into it. ‘I won’t mention this to anyone else because you’re going through enough shit at the moment and we’re all supposed to treat you with kid gloves. But if you ever – ever! – attempt to “do my tie” again, I will punch your teeth down your fucking throat. Understand?’

  He walked out of the changing rooms.

  I stood motionless for a while, afraid to even blink, as if the slightest movement might draw undue attention to myself and provoke anger in all directions.

  Then, slowly – oh, so slowly – I checked my hair in the mirror, straightened my collar, brushed dandruff from my shoulders, put my costume and towel in a plastic bag, put the plastic bag in my satchel, picked up my satchel and walked back to school.

  I remained mostly silent and subdued for the rest of that day. Several teachers asked how I was feeling and I always replied, ‘Fine, thanks, sir’ or ‘Fine, thanks, miss,’ but – I knew! – I wasn’t delivering the responses with much conviction. During lunch hour, I sat in a corner of the playground, and made out I was reading the Bible (always a good trick to keep the rabble at bay). I spotted Trey over by the bike sheds. He was with a few of his friends (also in the swimming team, though they hardly ever showed up for training, or showed any real interest at all) . When they saw me they all started sniggering and laughing. Trey – despite­ his words – had obviously told them what happened in the changing room. If so, what was he telling them? What had happened exactly? I wasn’t even sure I knew myself.

  That night, as we were doing the washing up, I asked Mum, ‘Where did you and Dad meet?’

  ‘Well! I wasn’t expecting that question!’

  ‘It was in a shop or something, wasn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right. It was in the launderette down Bethnal Green Road. I used to have a part-time job there. This is when I was . . . what? Fifteen? Sixteen? One day your dad comes in with his mum. They had their own washing machine but it had broken down. They didn’t know how to work the ones in the launderette so I showed them. We got to talking and . . . that’s how it all started.’

  ‘And Dad’s mum – ?’

  ‘Oh, she and your dad were so, so close.’

  ‘Dad’s dad . . . he’d abandoned them, hadn’t he?’

  ‘Yes. Soon after your dad was born. They never knew where he went and they didn’t want to know. Your dad’s mum said to me, “He’s dead for me now.” She worked day and night to give your dad everything she could. She even bought a car! Not a cheap one either!’

  ‘She wasn’t . . . Dad wasn’t . . . religious?’

  ‘Oh, no, no. It was the main reason my family were so . . . well, they weren’t sure your dad was the right man for me. But I said to them, “I love him and I’m going to be his wife, whether you like it or not. And it will all work out just fine. You’ll see.” And it did. Your dad – with my help – found God.’

  ‘And Dad’s mum died soon after – ?’

  ‘Soon after you were born, yes. A car crash. Terrible.’ She washed the final plate and put it in the draining rack. ‘But you had my parents as grandparents. At least for a while. God decided to take them before their time too.’

  ‘I can still remember them. Nan in particular.’

  ‘Well, she’s only been dead seven years so I should hope you would remember her.’ She looked up. ‘They’re all in Heaven now. And I bet they’re talking about us like we’re talking about them.’

  He got married very young. Did he have to get married? Was mum pregnant with me? And then – almost at once – his mum dies. He has no siblings. Nothing. He’s stranded in my mum’s family. They take over. He has no choice but to become what they want him to be.

  The next day, after school, when I was least expecting it, I saw the motorbike again.

  I’d gone over to Victoria Park – which is just down the road from St Jude’s – determined to find the spot where I’d once built a snowman with Dad. I knew that it was somewhere by the lake, and there was a particularly large tree nearby.

  It was the tree I saw first. It felt instantly familiar, even though I hadn’t seen it in years. It was a gigantic oak with girth as wide as a car. I remembered Dad telling me it was the oldest tree in the park. In fact, it had been there since before the park. They had done the landscaping around it. The roots of the tree protruded from the earth, so bulky I could sit on one of them as if it was a bench.

  I looked at the surrounding area. I remembered now . . . Dad used to bring me here a lot. Was it every Saturday? I think it was. We used to watch the swans on the lake and . . . and sometimes we fed them with stale bread and . . . There was always a football match going on nearby! Sometimes we’d watch it. And – yes! – Dad would put me on his shoulders! Why had I forgotten all this until now? Why had I erased so much of – ?

  The motorbike!

  I peeked round the tree.

  It was on the path near the lake. It was stopping.

  The biker took off his helmet and looked in my direction.

  Not at me. At the tree.

  He got off the bike and started to walk in my direction. He removed his jacket and swung it over his shoulders. I caught a glimpse of his midriff. His belt buckle sparkled.

  And then he stopped.

  There’s no way he could have seen me, I was too tucked behind the tree. Too camouflaged by roots and long grass. And then I realized— My satchel! It was a few feet away from me. He could see that!

  He took a step backward.

  I jumped to my feet and ran towards him.

  He turned round, putting his jacket back on, sprinting for his bike.

  ‘Don’t go!’ I ran after him. ‘VERDI!’

  I had no idea if this was actually his name (or, more likely, his nickname) but by the way he reacted – a hesitant step, a surprised glance back – I realized it must be.

  ‘VERDI!’ I yelled again.

  He got on the bike and revved the engine.

  Just as I reached him the bike lurched forward.

  My fingers just managed to touch the nape of his neck.

  He looked at me. Was he afraid?

  Then he sped off, the engine revving.

  ‘VERDI!’ I called. ‘COME BACK!’

  But he was almost at the park gates by now and, the next second, he was out of sight.

  I stood there, listen to his bike get fainter . . . fainter . . .

  Dad worked hard for his family. Mum always called him ‘a good provider’ and he was. And he did all he could to keep us safe and happy. He went to church with Mum every Sunday morning. And every Saturday morning he took me to Victoria Park.

  The next day, Friday, I decided not to go to school. I told Mum several teachers had advised me to take some time off – which, of course,
was true – and, although I was reluctant at first, I could now see the wisdom of it.

  Mum said, ‘Do you want me to stay at home with you? I can easily phone the supermarket and tell them – ’

  ‘No, no, I’ll be fine.’

  ‘I’m doing overtime today.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I’ll be okay.’

  She took some persuading but – eventually – she left.

  The first thing I did was shut all the curtains. I didn’t want to see outside and I didn’t want the outside to see me. I didn’t want to hear anything either. I put earplugs in (the ones I use for swimming). I wanted the world subdued, distant.

  I found that if I moved too fast, the jolt of my footsteps made me feel tearful. So I crept around the house, opening and closing doors – and going up and down the stairs – as gently as I could. Nothing must slam, nothing must creak. When I opened the fridge to get some Coke, the sudden blaze of light made me feel emotional too. Finally, I decided to go to bed. I tucked the blankets round me like a cocoon, and stared at the ceiling. There was a crack near the light bulb. I’d never noticed it before. It was a long and twisting crack that divided into two or three. It reminded me of something. Was it the shape of the Nile?

  I was still gazing at it when Mum came home.

  ‘You’re in bed?!’ she said.

  ‘I think I’ve got a cold,’ I told her.

  Mum produced a thermometer as if by magic. ‘Open wide!’ She put it under my tongue. ‘You mustn’t worry about anything. That’s the last thing your dad would have wanted.’ She looked at the thermometer. ‘Well, you haven’t got a temperature. Are you hungry?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Chicken or vegetable soup?’

  ‘I’m not – ’

  ‘Or there’s a tin of minestrone.’

  ‘ . . . I’ll have vegetable.’

  ‘Okay.’ She tucked the bed covers tighter round me. ‘Do you want anything else?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘A book. Magazine. Something to keep you occupied.’

  ‘Can I look at the photograph album?’

  ‘What? Now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She muttered something (I’d obviously given the wrong answer, even though it was what I wanted) then went to her bedroom. A few minutes later she returned with the family album – a large, leatherbound volume with the word ‘MEMORIES’ embossed on the front – and plonked it on my lap.

  I started turning the pages. A photograph of a much younger Mum and Dad on a beach somewhere. Another of Mum with her parents. Mum singing in the church choir. Mum with her parents outside the church. Photo after photo of Mum and her family. But none of Dad. I assumed because he was the one taking the photos. The first he actually appears in are a few from the day he married Mum (the ‘official’ wedding photos are in a special album, silk bound, kept in the loft). A photo of a big crowd outside the church. I tried to see if Dad looked happy or not, but he was too small in the photo to tell. And then I turned the page and . . . A photo of me. I’m just a baby. Mum is holding me. Dad is standing next to us. We’re all in the garden to our house. We couldn’t have been living there very long because there’re no flowers or fence. Just bare earth surrounded by a wire mesh. It could have been a prison camp.

  When dad found out he was ill, he thought, I haven’t lived I was meant to live. I haven’t done the things I wanted to do. This is not the me I could have been.

  The next day my ‘cold’ was worse. At least, that’s what I told Mum.

  She said, ‘The swimming competition’s tomorrow, you know.’

  She was already bored with the idea of me being unwell. She could play dutiful nurse for a day, but after that – if you weren’t improving – it was due to sheer obstreperousness on your part.

  I said, ‘I don’t think I’ll be able to do the competition.’

  ‘Well, that will be a big disappointment,’ Mum said. ‘Everyone expected you to win a medal. I’ve invited everyone from the supermarket, you know. And everyone from the church will be there!’

  I didn’t say anything.

  Mum huffed and went to work.

  I stayed in bed for most of the morning, then thirst – and other bodily functions – got the better of me. I crept downstairs to the kitchen and got something to drink, shielding my eyes from the fridge-light glare, then crept down the hallway and into the living room.

  I sat on the sofa and gazed at the empty television screen. Only it wasn’t empty. The room was reflected in it. And I was in that room. I could hear Mum commenting, ‘Look at that one! He used to be so smart. Now he’s a total mess.’

  I went back upstairs and, as I was about to enter my room, I noticed a canvas bag just inside Mum’s bedroom doorway. It was one of the bags she used to collect things for the charity shop. I looked into the bag. It was full of Dad’s clothes.

  It didn’t surprise me that Mum was getting rid of his stuff so soon. She’d been talking about giving it away since the day he died. Since before he died. But it was still a shock to see Dad’s cardigan, and his charcoal grey suit, and the flip flops he wore in the garden, all neatly packaged, ready for someone else – someone I didn’t know – to wear.

  I sat on my parents’ double bed. Dad’s wardrobe door was open. The rail of clothes was half empty (or should that be half full?) I could see the charcoal suit he used to wear when he came to watch me swim (or watch me and Mum in the choir), an overcoat I hadn’t seen him wear in years, some shirts (all white) and the denim jacket he’d only bought last year.

  I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I heard was Mum saying, ‘What’re you doing in here?’

  I blinked myself awake. ‘Oh . . . I . . . I saw Dad’s clothes in the bag and – ’

  ‘There’s other people who need them. It’s unchristian to hang onto them. We’ve been over this.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know.’

  ‘Get up, get up! You’re crumpling my quilt! You’ve got your own bed to flop on if you want to doze all day.’

  ‘Sorry, sorry.’

  ‘I’ll call when dinner’s ready. And if you do want to be in my room— Make yourself useful!’ She threw an empty canvas bag at me. ‘You can put the rest of your dad’s clothes in this.’

  ‘Yes, Mum.’

  ‘Make sure there’s nothing left in the pockets.’

  ‘Yes, Mum.’

  ‘And fold everything neatly.’

  ‘Yes, Mum.’

  I started removing clothes from Dad’s wardrobe. The charcoal grey suit first. I found a packet of peppermints in one of the pockets. The lining round the left sleeve was torn. How long had it been like that? I folded it carefully and put it in the bag.

  The denim jacket was the last thing I took from the wardrobe. I rummaged in the pockets. I found a photograph.

  It was a Polaroid. It was taken over Victoria Park. It was of the tree. The old oak tree with roots like benches. Verdi was sitting astride one of these roots. He had removed his leather jacket. His arms were wide open, as if waiting for – expecting! – an embrace. He looked so happy. So relaxed. So . . . in love.

  At the bottom of the photograph was a shadow. The person taking the photograph. I could tell from the silhouette it was Dad.

  I stared at the photograph for a long time. Then I took it to my room and hid it at the back of my notebook.

  Dad said, ‘I want to take your photo, Verdi. This is a very special spot for me, you see.’

  Verdi asked, ‘Why’s that?’

  Dad said, ‘I used to come here with my son. We built a snowman. Over there! – Now, smile!’ Dad took the photo. The two of them waited for the Polaroid to develop.

  Verdi asked, ‘But what if someone finds the photograph? Your son, for example.’

  Dad replied, ‘Perhaps I want him to find it.’

  The next morning I got up at seven o’clock. I went down to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. Mum, who usually slept till eight on a Sunday, came down and said, �
�You’re up early.’

  ‘I’ve got a swimming competition to get to,’ I said.

  ‘But I thought . . . I thought you were too ill to – ’

  ‘I did feel ill. But now I don’t.’

  Mum smiled. ‘Well, praise the Lord!’

  I ate my breakfast (muesli with sliced apple, and a glass of orange juice), then had a shower and dressed (in my school uniform, as all competitors were requested to do).

  I was in my room, packing my gear in a sports bag, when Mum popped her head in and said, ‘You’re still coming to the church with me first, I take it.’

  There was a church service at half past ten.

  ‘I won’t be able to make it today, Mum,’ I said.

  ‘I didn’t think the competition started till one.’

  ‘It doesn’t.’

  ‘Then you’ve got plenty of time to – ’

  ‘I have to get there early. To register and stuff.’

  ‘Not that early surely.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That early.’

  Mum didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, ‘Well, this will be the first Sunday service you’ve missed. You know that.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  Another pause. Then, ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I’ll ask everyone to say a prayer for you.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I kissed her. ‘I’ve got to rush. See you later.’

  I rushed out of the house.

  To be honest, I didn’t have to be at The Oasis (where the completion was taking place) as early as I’d told Mum. But there was no way – no way! – I could’ve faced church that morning.

  I spent the extra time jogging and generally limbering up, something I always did before a major event anyway (though perhaps not for as long as I did it that morning).

  Of course, to call a local schools’ swimming competition ‘a major event’ was a bit grand. It was far too amateurish and slapdash (or should that be ‘amateurish and splish-splash’) for that. No school that took part had a ‘professional’ swimming coach. Just a ‘jack of all trades’ gym teacher. Or, in our case, a ‘jack of all trades’ science teacher, who dabbled in a bit of gym. But . . . well . . . perhaps it was wrong of me to be disparaging or . . . or cynical about all this. It was, after all, a reason for everyone to get together and have a good time. And that’s worthwhile. That’s very worthwhile.