The Name I Call Myself

by Beth Moran

  I had been orphaned twice – once when my mother died, and again when I lost Grandma. God hadn’t saved me from Snake. Or everything else. He hadn’t saved Sam. He hadn’t stopped Kane killing my mum.

  And yet. I was here. And doing okay for myself. Sam and I survived Kane, and escaped Snake. I had somehow met an unusually generous man, who also happened to be a millionaire and had fallen in love with me, meaning Sam could get help.

  I was making friends at this strange little hotchpotch church. Having fun. Finding strength. Proper, in-your-guts, not-faking-it strength. Hmmm.

  As the crowd thinned, I managed to collar Dylan.

  I filled him in on Sam, briefly, before bringing up my real reason for walking six miles cross-country on a freezing cold winter morning.

  “I wanted to say thanks, again, for last week.”

  “It’s cool. I accepted your thanks the first time.” He grinned.

  I crossed and uncrossed my arms, suddenly not quite sure where they were meant to go.

  “Did you miss the service last week, to be with Sam?”

  His face went very still for a microsecond. Then he laughed. “I did. But we had a family service, and it was my turn to end up in the gunge tank again. I really didn’t mind missing that.”

  “But it’s your job.”

  “Taking care of people in crisis is also my job. Our family worker led the service that morning. Apparently it all went smoothly. And Hester quite enjoyed getting gunged.”

  “Why didn’t you say something?”

  Dylan looked at me, blue eyes serious now. Something unidentifiable flickered in that look.

  “I wanted to help.” He shrugged. “It’s what friends do. Now, if you’ll excuse me I need to speak to that guy over there before he leaves.”

  After a particularly gruelling choir practice – “Stop lolling! Use your diaphragm to breathe! It’s why God gave you one. FOCUS! If you can’t make me believe you actually care if I stand by you or not, there is no point entering this competition. Rowan! Is that gum in your mouth?” – Rosa asked for another dress fitting.

  “I’ll text the bridesmaids and see when they’re free. When were you thinking?”

  “My goodness. When were you thinking? Are all brides in England like this? You don’t care about your dresses, or what they are looking like. Not even your own dress! What about rest of plans? Cake? Flowers? Decorations for tables? Have you written invitations or will you be sending a text?”

  “Larissa has it all under control.”

  “What, she chooses and you say yes? Why don’t you care about your wedding, Faith? It less than six months away.” Rosa shook her head in disbelief.

  “Last week she phoned me about wedding favours. Did I want the heart soaps to read ‘Peregrine and Faith love everlasting’, ‘Perry and Faith to have and to hold’, or ‘Mr and Mrs Upperton til death do us part’? How can I plan a wedding with someone who thinks there are people on this earth who would enjoy washing themselves with any of those options? It’s being married I’m bothered about, not getting married.”

  “So you been getting ready for becoming a wife? That’s good. What you been doing? Learning how to look after a man?”

  “No! Perry can take care of himself. I’ve been going to the marriage course here on Tuesday nights.”

  “Ah! So you and Perry learn together.”

  “Yes.”

  Yes. When Perry finally turned up. Usually somewhere about halfway through the class. But to be honest, I didn’t think Perry was the one who was going to need help making this marriage work.

  Saturday afternoon, my bridesmaids gathered. Marilyn brought Rosa and the dresses in her car: four dresses carefully folded in supermarket carrier bags and one zipped inside a professional moth-resistant, polycotton dress cover.

  “Marilyn first,” Rosa commanded. “You are causing me a lot of trouble with this personal trainer. I going to waste a lot of material if this continues.”

  Marilyn stripped off her tunic and leggings, squirming. She quickly stepped into her dress. This time, no longer a sample, the fabric shone a deep blue tulle, with delicately embroidered butterflies along the bottom third of the skirt in silver, bottle green, and three shades of purple. Some of the butterflies looked as though they had broken free from the rest, and were flying up the skirt. Marilyn held the dress up while Rosa fastened the row of tiny buttons, in colours to match the butterflies. As it swished slightly, the dress shimmered, giving the impression the butterflies were flying.

  “A-may-zing,” Natasha breathed. “Like, totally, utterly brilliant. It’s the most gorgeous dress I have ever seen. Like, ever. Better than anything at New York fashion week by miles. You look like the queen.”

  “Pardon?” Marilyn’s smile dimmed somewhat.

  “No, a queen. Not the Queen. A queen from a film about an amazing queen who is massively beautiful, and wise and strong and married to a gnarled old king obsessed with power and money who doesn’t see the real her, but then she meets a hunksome knight with humble beginnings who rescues her from a terrifying beast and at the start they, like, argue all the time because he thinks she’s dead proud and used to people obeying her every command. But really she’s just lonely and miserable, and she thinks he’s a rough brute with no respect for women. But they fall in love, and the king dies so they’re free to be together. Only it’s too late. The knight has gone on a quest leading to certain death. But then she goes after him and…”

  “Okay! I get it. I think I know how it ends.”

  “You can’t!” Natasha shook her head vigorously. “I haven’t made up the ending yet.”

  “Well, as enjoyable as it was, and complimentary, shall we carry on with the fitting? Leona’s babysitting for me. I don’t want to leave her alone for too long with Nancy and Pete. It might put her off having them again.”

  Rosa shuffled Marilyn in front of the mirror I’d carried downstairs. Marilyn gasped at the incredible reflection, letting go of the top of the dress to get a proper look. As she did, the dress slipped right off her to the floor. She carried on staring into the mirror, for once dumbfounded.

  “Looks like those training sessions have been paying off,” I grinned. “It almost makes six hours a week with the torture twins worth it.”

  “I thought my scales had gone doolally.”

  “How much have you lost?”

  “Nearly three stone. I didn’t believe it, but it must be true. Look at me. I have muscles. And a waist. And look, a bone!”

  “You look fabulous.”

  “But you must have seen in the mirror?” Catherine asked. “Or noticed that your clothes didn’t fit?”

  “If you got four hours’ sleep a night, were five stone overweight, covered in stretch marks, and brushed your hair once a week you wouldn’t look in a mirror, either. And I’ve spent the past year in leggings and tracksuit bottoms. I knew I’d lost something. Even if it was just the gallons of sweat Anton wrings out of me. But. I look…” She sniffed. “Hooten tooten. I look almost normal.”

  “Normal?” Rosa shook her head in indignation. “You are extraordinary.”

  “Your dress is extraordinary.” Marilyn pulled it back up. “You’d better get measuring. And be prepared. Who knows how skinny I’ll be by August?”

  Natasha and Catherine’s dresses were perfect fits. Both “dusty aqua” as planned. On the bottom seam of Natasha’s, Rosa had embroidered tiny shells, some pointy, some curled like snails, others in a fan shape, all in a mix of palest pink, mother of pearl, vanilla, and coral. Catherine’s shimmered with starfish, each only a few centimetres long. Deep red, gold, slate grey, and copper, they swam along the bottom of her skirt and the edges of her capped sleeves.

  Rosa’s creations were like nothing I’d seen before. Striking. Magnificent. Alluring and innocent at the same time.

  I looked at those stunning girls, hair sleek and shiny, fresh-faced and glowing, the dress fabric flowing over every curve like water. Steeling my senses, I u
nzipped the climate-control garment bag in one swift movement, releasing the repaired Ghost Web. Only it wasn’t the Ghost Web. Soft, light fabric spilled out of the opening, an antique cream in the sense of antique being beautiful and timeless, not your mother-in-law’s horrible old dress.

  “It is Nottingham Lace,” Rosa said, lifting the dress out of the bag. “I get it cheap from a woman in the paper.”

  “Where’s the Ghost Web?”

  She sniffed, jerking her head in the direction of the last carrier bag.

  “Is it repaired?”

  “Yes. And altered to fit. I took some material off the bottom and inserted it into the bodice. It is still the ugliest item of clothing I ever saw. I disinfect my hands after touching that dress. Then I had big glass of vodka and sewed many butterflies to clean up my brain. But here, you try this dress first. Then decide.”

  I tried on Rosa’s dress. The top half was covered in Nottingham Lace, the bottom plain silk. I felt like a movie star from the 1940s. Understated elegance, my curves an asset not a liability, to be celebrated rather than hidden. I felt beautiful. And unlike in the lovely dresses from the bridal shop, I felt like me.

  “Do you see the flowers?”

  It was hard to find them through my blurry vision, but I did find three rows of daisies winding along the bottom of the hem, in keeping with the embroidery on the bridesmaids’ dresses.

  “My favourite flowers.”

  “Yes. I heard you telling Melody. And, see, each row is different.”

  They were. On the top row, the flowers were in bud, the second row were partly open, and the third in full bloom. And in amongst the flowers were tiny butterflies, shells, and starfish.

  “You open up, Faith, like a flower. I even see you smile now, sometimes. Once or twice shoulders relaxing. Your face – how you say” – she hastily consulted her dictionary – “peep out from behind your stone wall. This dress tell your story. Like Marilyn’s dress tell her story – change from fat caterpillar to butterfly. Natasha like pretty shell – nice outside protect squishy inside, to stop heart get broken again.”

  “What?” Natasha splurted out a mouthful of coffee.

  “Catherine’s dress tell her story. You chop off starfish arm, it grow back again. Catherine had difficult things happen, take away part of her that mattered most. Still Catherine, but new Catherine. More careful now, wiser, and watching what really happening. Still a star.”

  Catherine began to cry.

  “Wowzers,” Marilyn said. “Are you one of those mentalists?”

  “Those what-ists?” Rosa frowned.

  “She’s wondering how you knew.” Was it my imagination, or did I sound more lovely and elegant in this dress?

  “Aha!” Rosa smirked. “You think I’m brain reader? Tell what going to happen by looking at your hand?” She laughed. “I call your house, your mothers answer. They very happy telling me why their pretty girls not got a man yet. You need to move out, get some privacy.”

  I tried on the Ghost Web, standing on the other side of my living room from the mirror. Nobody said anything. It felt like a funeral. The dress fit, and the rips had vanished. Marilyn, back in her leggings and tunic, narrowed her eyes at me, the cup of coffee in her hand twitching.

  “Don’t even think about it.” I pointed at the coffee.

  “Oh, I will. I will think about it. But I’m not going to slay the ghost until you give the order. It’s your decision, Faith. You have to make it. But, when you do, I’m going to enjoy ripping that ghoul to shreds.”

  “Or neatly packing it away and returning it to its owner.”

  “Yeah. Or that.”

  The first Saturday in March, the Grace Choir assembled in the chapel car park, boarding the minibus in a gaggle of breathless excitement and bad jokes. Our black choir dresses, this time accessorized with a rainbow of coloured belts and shoes from red to violet, lay in sheets of plastic across the back row.

  We were ten minutes late. We were waiting for Polly.

  Thirty-eight weeks pregnant, we had hoped (and prayed, literally, after every rehearsal and on Sunday mornings) that Polly’s baby would wait until after the competition. Increasingly pale, and worryingly thin except for her beach-ball bump, Polly had shrunk more inside herself as the weeks went by. She gave up trying to smile or pretending to be okay, making no more than the barest attempt at conversation. Despite us both being altos, and supposed to know each other’s ups and downs, dreams, secrets, and knicker size, Polly had barely spoken to me since the Christmas carol service. And only then, I knew, because to ignore me completely would confirm I’d been right about her situation.

  She insisted she was simply tired, worn down from backache, permanent indigestion, and being kicked in the ribs.

  I prayed the baby was the only one kicking Polly. I prayed with fervour, and tears, and a swollen heart.

  We were half an hour late. We had to go. Hester was vibrating like an overheated washing machine.

  Where was Polly?

  We rang the phone number she gave when joining the choir. I’m sorry, we were told, that line is not in service.

  “I’ll go and get her,” said Marilyn, our non-essential choir member. “Does anyone know where she lives?”

  After much discussion it turned out that none of us had ever been to Polly’s house, dropped her off, picked her up, or even heard her talk about where she lived. Eventually, Janice reminded Millie that her daughter’s husband’s secretary had been at school with Polly, and they used to be friends once. A load more phone calls, including a five-minute heated discussion with a local plumber, the force of which threatened to blast Hester’s helmet into orbit, resulted in a village, a probable street, and a definite description of a red front door, an eight-foot-high leylandii hedge, and gateposts with two lions sitting on the top.

  “Hokeycokey. I’m on it. You go, and we’ll catch you up.”

  Marilyn sprinted over to her car (more proof of Anton’s amazing fitness powers) and started the engine. Roaring out of the car park, she sped down the road, before screeching to a stop, reversing at about fifty miles an hour back to the chapel, and winding down her window.

  “Where’s the competition again? Is it Leicester, or Lincoln?”

  I shook my head. “Hang on. I’m coming with you.”

  There were roars of protest from the choir. Polly and I were both singing second alto. Without us, the whole sound would be off-kilter.

  Hester looked at me, steadily, as everyone quietened down to see what she would say. I placed my hand on my stomach, across the hidden slash-scar, and Hester’s head nodded, the tiniest fraction of an inch. “Well, what are you waiting for? You’re blocking the drive. Get! Get! Get!”

  We got, got, got to Polly’s house.

  Sort of. After about four wrong turns, three times up and down the high street, and having to stop and ask a man walking his dog for directions to the house with the lion gateposts.

  With or without the lions, the eight-foot hedge, and the red front door, I would have known we had the right place.

  The house was immaculate. Every stalk of grass pointing straight up, not one piece of gravel out of place on the driveway. Regimental rows of early flowers – snowdrops, crocuses, purple anemones – lined up along the front wall of the house. Every window was shrouded in drapes. The house looked frozen. Lifeless. It looked like Polly.

  We rang the bell, knocked, peered through the windows. No answer.

  “What do we do?” Marilyn tried jumping to see over the side gate.

  “There’s no car. Maybe she’s late, so Tony’s giving her a lift. Or she’s gone into labour and is at the hospital,” I said.

  “I can’t imagine any other reason Polly’d miss the East Midlands heat of the International Community Choir Sing-Off.”

  Oh boy. I could imagine several reasons. They wriggled in my guts. I hoped those choir girls were praying.

  I folded my arms. “We can’t leave without making sure she’s not inside
.”

  Marilyn squinted at me. “I’d high five that decision, but I’m too worried about Polly. What’s the plan?”

  “I have no idea. Credit card to pick the lock? Kick the door down? Maybe they’ve got a key hidden under a plant pot.”

  While Marilyn hunted for a spare key, I sized up our other options. While I pressed my face against the window, hoping for a clue, a faint moan drifted through the glass.

  “I heard something!” I ran over to the front door, pushing my fingers through the bristly letterbox to try to make a peephole. “We’re here, Polly. We’re coming to help you.”

  “Should we phone the police?” Marilyn asked, squeezing up behind me on the doorstep.

  “We can’t call the police because someone isn’t answering the front door. Argh. Think, Faith, think.” I sprinted over to the side gate, trying to gauge if I could scale it with a boost from Marilyn. “Maybe if we get around the back, we can find a window open, or something.”

  Crash!

  I turned back to see a saucer-sized hole in the front door pane. Marilyn tossed the rock she’d used to one side, wrapped her cardigan round her wrist, and shoved her hand through the hole.

  She frowned. “There’s no key in the lock.”

  “Can you see one hanging up anywhere?”

  Pulling her hand out, she stuck her eye up to the opening.

  “No.” She picked up the rock again. “I’m going to smash enough of the glass for you to climb through. What do you think?”

  “I think I’m glad you’re here. I think I hope Polly isn’t inside calling the police. I think I’m going to wet my pants if Tony comes home and finds us here. I think you should be quick about it. And please be careful.”

  About six minutes later, I stood carefully amidst the shards of glass on Polly’s hall carpet. Leaving Marilyn to make her own way inside, I started searching the house.

  In the perfectly decorated, tastefully furnished, spotlessly tidy master bedroom I found her. Kneeling on the floor, leaning her shoulders on the bed, one hand clutching at the silk bedspread for dear life. She buried her face into the mattress and released a deep, primal groan.