Wake Up Happy Every Day

by Stephen May

  None of this second-best shit.

  Eleven

  LORNA

  Lorna has never really done sweat. She avoided sports at high school, her mum wearily colluding in the skiving by agreeing to pen the necessary notes until, in the end, everyone quietly accepted that during PE Lorna would just make her way to the library or the textile room.

  It’s textiles she’s doing now, she supposes. Crocheting what will become a cuddly mouse for Armitage Shanks to play with while Megan does her rough games. Her silly PE. Funny how life could change so much, and also hardly at all at the same time. She can easily imagine that if she ever has a child she’ll be sitting in sports halls all over the country reading or knitting, while little Marley or little Dinah takes part in judo or Irish dancing or whatever. She could be doing what she’s doing now for years. And then there might be grandchildren. Wherever she goes, whatever she does, it might always be a simple twist on what she’s doing now.

  Sitting with her wool and her thoughts Lorna is able to tune out most of the class. Despite this she’s aware that Megan is the best. Not just the fastest in the sprints, but she has the quickest reflexes in the various games they play. There’s this one game where everyone is wearing boxing gloves but instead of fighting each other, they have to slap the elbows or the shoulders or the arses of a partner without getting slapped themselves. Megan is terrific at it. She is lightning fast – in – slap – and out, like an otter gulping fish in a rushing stream.

  She is also the most elegant. Some of the other women are quick and strong, but with them there is always a sense of effort, of labour. Everyone else in the group is plum-faced and soaked after a few minutes. Megan is merely slicked, glistening, tinged with just enough of a hint of colour to make a spectator think of apricots or peaches. And she keeps control of herself too. She stays nimble on her toes and her back stays straight where others begin to hunch and shuffle slightly as the class goes on – like they are becoming old in front of everyone.

  And when they hit the pads or the bags the class is encouraged to vocalise, and most grunt formlessly, but Megan restricts herself to a controlled percussive pa pa pa-pa. Or, when jabbing, a quicker, aspirated rhythm pha-pha-pha. Long and short of it, Megan is good. And for a nicely brought up middle-class white girl from Berkeley, she is aces. Lorna gets that.

  When the class starts sparring, Lorna puts down her needles and her wool. People trying to hit each other is always fascinating. It is gruesomely compelling outside the Ginger Goose in Bradford on a Saturday night, and it is still very watchable here now.

  The way it works is that the class do two-minute circuits. Ten stations: skipping, squat thrusts, press-ups, bag work, step-ups and oh, loads of things, and one station is the ring where Linwood, the instructor, defends himself against each girl in turn. He doesn’t really fight back, though he sometimes taps the women on the forehead – gently, so gently – if he thinks they are leaving themselves too open.

  It is clear to Lorna that this is what the women pay for. Ten dollars for the chance to hit a guy in the face? A total bargain. However tired the women are when they come off the bag work, they perk up significantly once they are in the ring and loosing off shots for real. And it is for real. While even an amateur onlooker like Lorna can see that not one of these try-hard soccer moms would last a minute in a real fight, and probably not survive even one decent counter-punch from Linwood – in their heads they are fighting for their lives.

  Just how good Megan is can be gauged by the fact that Linwood does genuinely bop her on the nose a couple of times. Hard enough to make the watching Lorna wince. Hard enough to bring a proper flush to Megan’s face for the first time. And when Megs comes out of the ring she doesn’t go to her next station but goes straight to the showers saying, ‘I guess we better get going Lorna, my dear,’ and she’s trying to sound breezy and doing OK but Lorna can still hear angry tears in her voice. And Megan can tell that her roomie knows she’s not so blasé because she gives a wibbly-wobbly smile and says, ‘I’m OK – just need to work on my defence. Can’t be going forward all the time. Give me five minutes, ’kay?’

  While she is in the shower Linwood comes over to Lorna.

  ‘You know, I’m hard on her because that’s how she’ll get better.’

  Lorna just looks at him. Keeps right on crocheting. Linwood looks at the floor. He is handsome, sort of. A fine, well-built black man with that big-gunned, xylophone-abbed, even-featured look men aspire to over here. He has a face so sternly symmetrical, so coolly contemporary, it could win design awards. To tone this down he is wearing heavy black-rimmed specs, a transparent effort to soften the jockness.

  Linwood smiles and Lorna flinches at the sudden gleam of the wall of teeth. Like the sun shining off a row of riot shields.

  ‘You should have joined in. The class I mean. Gotta be better than knitting.’

  ‘Crocheting.’

  There is silence again.

  ‘You’re pissed at me. A little. Admit it. You are. For hitting your friend.’

  ‘She’s a big girl.’

  Linwood is delighted. It seems he feels this meant he is exonerated in the court of Megan’s friends. It isn’t the impression Lorna means to give. Not at all.

  ‘That’s it.’ He nods so vigorously his head actually seems to bounce. ‘Right. She’s an adult. And she’s the best. Totally. She’s just got to learn to keep her hands up. To defend herself at all times. Come on, stand up.’

  ‘What?’

  Linwood reaches down. He’s very tall. Like a big, black tree, only supple. A black willow maybe. He very deliberately moves the wool and the hook from Lorna’s hands and lap. Then he pulls her up to her feet. ‘You’ll like boxing,’ he says as he moulds her hands and feet into a fighting stance.

  ‘I don’t think so. I don’t do PE. Sorry.’ But she doesn’t attempt to move away or change position while Linwood pulls his gloves back on. Lorna feels ridiculous but also hypnotised somehow. It’s because she is so many miles from her comfort zone. When had she last been in a gym? Year ten was it? So that would be 1997. Empires have risen and fallen since then. The world has boomed and bust twice at least. There have been wars. Some of them have even finished. More or less.

  ‘Now try and hit me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Hit me. Hard as you can.’

  ‘Hit you?’

  ‘Hit me. Give me your best shot.’

  ‘Oh, fuck it.’

  Linwood purses his lips. ‘No need to curse.’

  ‘I think you’ll find that there is usually every need.’

  And then she swings at him, and he bats her away easily with his gloved right hand. He laughs. ‘It goes best when you don’t shut your eyes when you throw one.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, but you so did. Come on, again.’

  So she throws a few bare-knuckle punches, painfully conscious of how flappy and girlish they seem, even to her, and Linwood catches them all with no trouble. And he corrects her stance and teaches her about snapping out the jab and the difference between a hook and an uppercut, and shows her to swing her hips with the punch, and he more or less ignores the other women calling out their exhausted goodbyes to him.

  And after a few minutes he says, ‘You’re actually a natural.’

  To which she replies, ‘And you’re actually a bullshitter.’ And Linwood purses his lips again at the cursing. It makes her smile that this big tough guy is so prim. And she also can’t help feeling pleased at the praise, and then she notices Megan standing watching, hands on hips, eyes narrowed.

  ‘Ready to go, babes?’

  Megan just inclines her head slightly, then turns and strides away towards the stairs that lead to the car park and, feeling weirdly caught out, obscurely naughty, Lorna trots after those big shoulders, that narrow waist, those dancers thighs – the whole package, it seems to Lorna, transmitting a disapproving haughtiness.

  ‘Hey, Megan!’ Linwood
is calling. Megan turns. ‘Nice work today. Fast hands.’

  Megan nods gravely but says nothing, just raises the hand that isn’t carrying her gym bag. She looks at him coolly for a long second. Flicks her wet hair away from her face.

  There are no words in the car for ages. Megan has the radio up too loud to talk comfortably and is concentrating on the traffic in any case. It’s building up now. She is doing the thin-lip thing again. She can make it go like razor-wire when she wants. It’s such an obvious sulk that Lorna wants to laugh. It’s funny though, because she wouldn’t have thought Linwood was her usual type. Altogether too jock, despite the glasses. Maybe we’re both getting desperate, she thinks. Or maybe it is just that they had been in Megan’s space, the gym being her domain. If it’s that, well, it’s unfair because it was Megan who had insisted she should drive her to Russian Hill after class, be there to provide back-up. It wasn’t like Lorna was begging to hang at the boxing club. And she hadn’t wanted the attention from Linwood, hadn’t encouraged it. She had, in fact, been fairly abrupt with him, a bit off. Rude even.

  She supposes now that the best thing would be to clear the air with a few light remarks, to make Megan laugh. It is usually easy to josh her out of a mood, but Lorna is starting to feel a bit tired and headachy and anyway, maybe Megan isn’t even thinking about Lorna’s accidental flirtation with Linwood at all, maybe she is just stressed about the traffic. Maybe she is genuinely and simply concerned about flyovers and intersections and freeways. Whether or not to take the FAIR lane, the one where you can pay ten dollars and ensure a queue-free ride. The stuff Lorna, as a permanent passenger – as one of the fourteen or so people in the state who doesn’t drive – never has to worry about.

  She had already formed the impression from her mum that her father had done well in business, but even so this neighbourhood is still a bit intimidating. These have to be the most expensive houses in the city. Huge, surrounded by electronic gates and walls and looking down on everyone else. Each one like a castle busy getting on with its own fairy tale.

  Uncertain of where the house is exactly, they park up to consult the scrap of paper on which Lorna has scrawled the address. The grandeur of the area makes Lorna feel drab and shy in contrast. Megan conversely seems to brighten now the drive is over. Yeah, maybe it really had been the traffic making her do the tight mouth thing. Lorna hopes so. She doesn’t want a ridiculous spat over some idiot boy to spoil what could be her last few weeks in the States.

  ‘I think it’s that one,’ Megan says as she points at a particularly film-setty palace painted the colour of manuka honey. ‘And do you think that’s him?’

  Lorna follows Megan’s imperious finger with its short athlete’s nail. She sees a plumpish, balding, rosy-cheeked man in a dark suit come out of the gate that belongs to the golden house. They watch as he points elaborately at the line of parked cars. It’s a gesture that seems overdone, more like a G-man taking a bead on a mobster with a handgun than a man opening the doors to his car. It does the job though, the lights on an anonymous, grey Lexus-Volvo-Audi-SUV thing blink twice.

  The guy is about the right age, and he looks anxiously uncomfortable. Meaning that, yes, he looks English. Is there any creature less built for elegance in the sun and heat, than the middle-aged English bloke in a suit? So it could be her dad, it really could. Yet she feels no exhilaration. Instead she feels flat and frumpy and her headache is worse.

  Megan is already out of the car. ‘Come on, sister, look alive.’ And yes, of course, this bloke, this possible dad, might be driving off any second. There isn’t time to sit around plucking up courage and rehearsing what she is going to say and whatnot. She clambers out of Megan’s battered Focus feeling hot, ungainly, sticky, sweaty and nauseous. Perhaps it is just as well her dad – if that’s who he is – doesn’t look like a glamorous movie exec.

  Megan links arms with her and hurries her along. ‘Exciting, huh?’ she says, and she doesn’t sound satirical or anything. She sounds like she means it.

  They are about 100 metres from the house now, and the silver Lexus-Volvo-Audi or whatever is maybe another 50 metres beyond that. The man, her dad, whoever, hasn’t got in yet – he is leaning against it waiting for someone. Waiting in fact for this small, thoughtful woman coming out of the gate now. A woman with a kind face wearing a funky mod-inspired black–and-white dress that almost fits, but somehow doesn’t quite.

  ‘Balenciaga,’ whispers Lorna to Megan, ‘four thousand dollars. At least.’ And then she notices that both the woman and the man are now standing together, silent, motionless, looking at them oddly. Megan and Lorna come to a halt too. There is an uncomfortable gap of thick swampy air between them. Lorna feels panicky now. There’s nothing to say. Nothing at all.

  It is the woman in the ill-fitting Balenciaga dress who speaks first.

  ‘Can we help you?’ A kind voice. Soft. Pleasant. Cautiously friendly, with warm brown tones to it. It’s also definitely English. Southern but not London, maybe just a hint of the M4. Reading? Bristol? Bath? Not as far west as that. Swindon? A careful voice anyway, one that doesn’t want to draw attention to itself.

  ‘Um,’ says Lorna. The thick dead air sucks at her tongue. Next to her Megan coughs.

  ‘Excuse me, sir.’ This uncomfortable bloke turns his worried frown towards her. ‘My friend was wondering if maybe, by any chance, you were, kinda her father?’

  Uncomfortable bloke opens the car door, making ready to leave.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  He is also English though. Southern again, with more of a London thing going on. That ‘t’ on ‘don’t’ almost disappeared. Her dad was from the south-east originally. Lorna swallows hard and steps forward. She puts out her hand.

  ‘I’m Lorna. Lorna Dawson.’

  He looks at her hard now, lets a few long moments pass, and then, briefly, touches her fingers with his.

  ‘I’m not your dad,’ he says quietly. He sounds tired. Lorna looks at his face and, true, she can’t see herself there. She just sees some randomer’s ordinary middle-aged face, pouchy with weariness, pink on the cheeks and nose where the sun has caught him.

  ‘So. Tell the poor girl your name.’ The woman sounds like she’s smiling, but her eyes are glittery. She suddenly has the look of the women in the gym, thinks Lorna. She looks like she proper wants to belt something, someone. And to belt them very hard. Not so soft, pleasant or cautiously friendly now.

  ‘Nigel,’ says the bloke at last. ‘Nigel Smith.’

  ‘Oh right.’

  ‘Nigel,’ repeats the woman heavily. Then she says, ‘He – Nigel – works for Russell Knox. Is that who you were looking for?’

  ‘Yes. Yes it was, ma’am.’

  ‘He’s gone travelling.’

  ‘Oh.’

  There is silence.

  ‘He’s not expected back for months. If at all. Sorry.’

  And she actually does sound a bit sorry.

  Megan ignores the woman, directs her whole attention to Nigel, gives him the steady force of her peachy, apricotty light. She says, ‘Sir, perhaps you have a number? Or an email address? My friend has been trying to find Mr Knox for a long time. I’m sure you understand.’

  ‘Well, I . . .’ The bloke – Nigel – looks confused. He glances towards the woman who makes a face, shakes her head slightly. ‘Well, I . . .’ Nigel begins again. The woman cuts in briskly. Sharp.

  ‘We can’t give out contact details, dear. Nigel would get fired. As I’m sure you understand.’

  ‘Oh right.’ Lorna just wants to be gone now. This is all excruciating.

  ‘But maybe you could give us your details and that way Mr Knox can get in touch with you if he wishes.’

  ‘I never knew he had a daughter.’ Nigel seems to be announcing this to the world at large. There is a silence. The world at large doesn’t seem to be listening. Doesn’t seem to care much.

  ‘Have you worked for Mr Knox long?’ This is Megan again.

  ‘We�
��ve known him years, haven’t we, darling?’

  ‘Quite a while.’ Nigel seems to be recovering his composure now, thinks Lorna. Perhaps he senses the whole conversation, confrontation, whatever, coming to an end.

  Lorna gets her pen and notebook out of her bag. She starts to scribble her email and phone number. The pen goes dead after the first three letters. She scratches furiously at the page, but it has really had it. Lorna can feel herself blushing. It shouldn’t matter – one of the others is bound to have a pen – but, somehow, it does. A competent person, a person with a proper father, would have a pen that worked.

  Silently Megan hands her another Biro.

  ‘Thanks.’ Lorna feels like crying.

  She finishes scrawling all her details, not just cellphone and email, but her address in Emeryville and her mum’s in England. Nigel takes the page from her and examines it carefully.

  ‘You’re from Saltaire in Yorkshire?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘The town Sir Titus Salt originally built for his mill workers?’

  Lorna is startled. She rarely meets people who know her hometown.

  ‘Yeah, the very same. They let ordinary people live there now.’ And then in a rush she says, ‘They don’t do that these days, do they? Modern millionaires, I mean. Where’s Billgatesville? Where’s Tetrapack City?’

  The man smiles. ‘Who’d want to live in those places?’

  ‘You’re right. Billgatesville. Imagine, everyone rocking the double denim and getting themselves all stressy about recycling.’

  The man’s smile broadens. He looks nice now. Shy. Decent. Ordinary.

  ‘Nigel,’ the woman prompts.

  ‘Oh right, yeah. We better get going.’ Nigel’s smile vanishes, replaced by the worried frown again. She can see black fillings in his mouth. Russell Knox – her dad – clearly doesn’t pay enough for proper dental care. Who has black fillings these days?