by Carys Bray
‘Would you … do you think we should … Are Issy’s things bothering you?’
‘Not really,’ he fibs, his tummy clenching as he stares down at the orphaned jumble of Duplo, dolls and ponies with bright nylon hair. If he tells her the truth, she might throw them all away, and then Issy won’t have anything to play with when she comes back.
Mum’s voice jellies around her words as she says, ‘We could sort them out, if you like.’
‘Don’t cry,’ he says quickly.
‘I wasn’t …’ She wipes a hand over her face, as if to make sure.
‘Good. Leave Issy’s things. It’s okay. She might want them back—’
‘Jacob, I’ve told you that we won’t see her again until—’
‘After she’s resurrected, she might want them back,’ he explains cunningly. ‘Everyone gets resurrected at the end of the world. Dad said so.’
Mum lets out a big puff of air. ‘That’s a long way off.’
‘You never know,’ he says in a grown-up voice.
She smiles at his imitation of her and switches the Hoover on. He watches as she pushes it back and forth, mowing the carpet. She unclips the wiggler attachment and worms it into the gap between the toy boxes. It sucks along the skirting board, uncurling and stretching like an elephant’s trunk.
Then she kneels down. And Jacob suddenly feels marooned on the top deck of the bunk, the captain of a vessel that is rapidly approaching Niagara Falls.
‘Haven’t you finished?’ His question pierces the Hoover’s greedy moan like a rescue shout.
‘I’m just going to do under the bed,’ she calls up to him. ‘Goodness knows when I last did it.’ She kneels on the floor and thrusts the wiggler about as if she is trying to capsize him.
‘You don’t have to do it today,’ he exclaims, his thoughts paddling against the current of her decision like frantic hands.
There’s a sound like the clatter of homemade shakers filled with uncooked rice and pasta, and his stomach sways as the bird bones rattle up the wiggler. He wants to launch himself off the top bunk and bodyslam the Hoover like a professional wrestler, but he sits still as it sucks up his hope.
‘Have you got some Lego under here?’ Mum starts to lie down on the floor to get a proper look under the bed.
‘No,’ he shouts down to her. ‘I think it must be some … rubbish.’
She gets up and switches the Hoover off.
‘I’ll check for Lego when I empty it later, just to make sure.’ She clips the wiggler back in place, unplugs the cord, and closes the door on her way out.
Jacob stays on his bunk for a bit, looking down at the room. Mum will probably forget to check the Hoover, which means he’s not likely to get into trouble. That’s good; it’s something to feel happy about. He tries to feel happy. He pushes his cheeks up with his fingers and lifts his face into a smile, but his mouth pops open and a small sob spills out. He is disappointed to find himself so far from happy. He pulls back the duvet, lies down on his tummy and buries his head in the pillow. A series of sobs shake out of him and rattle into the pillow, grazing the back of his throat like tiny bones.
Eventually, he climbs down the ladder. With God, all things are possible. God helps those who help themselves and He loves a trier: if at first you don’t succeed, try, try, try again. Remembering all this about God makes Jacob feel ever so slightly better. He puts the stray soldiers in his toy box, but he keeps hold of the book that was under the bed. It’s the story of ‘Jack and the Beanstalk’. He opens it to the middle page, which is a special, foldout picture of the beanstalk, its tip is hidden by clouds. He knows that ‘Jack and the Beanstalk’ is not a miracle. It’s just a fairy tale. No one could get some magic beans. It could never happen; not on your nelly, absolutely no way. Fairy tale nevers are not the kind of nevers that Jacob is looking for. He is in search of nevers that can be slipped under, scaled, or tiptoed around. But even though he knows that fairy tale nevers are impossible to bend, he wishes he had a beanstalk. He wishes that Sister Anderson would bring magic beans to Primary instead of mustard seeds. He wishes he could plant the magic beans at the bottom of the garden, behind the hedge, and watch an enormous stalk twist and stretch skyward. And even though Dad says that heaven is not actually in the sky, he wishes he could climb the stalk right up into the clouds and find Issy. That would be ace.
The baby aisle
The trolley was bursting and it was almost time to pick the twins up from nursery when the rhythmic mewling of newborns and a whiff of their fresh-out-of-the-belly smell encouraged her to have a quick peep down the baby aisle. She dug the disregarded shopping list out of her pocket and placed it on the trolley’s vacant child seat for protection, a reminder of her resolution not to buy anything. The lamb-like wails of discontented infants washed into her ears on a wave of nostalgia. The sound seemed to interfere with the transmission of memory, allowing only the selected Hallmark highlights of motherhood to play in her mind. It reminded her of when the twins were tiny. It was the January sales two years ago when she pushed them through the checkout for the first time. They were an impulse buy. A BOGOF offer she couldn’t resist. She wasn’t the only one. There are several sets of non-identical twins at the nursery. Her own: Grace and Thomas, and another set from Tesco: Daniel and Georgia, along with Niklas and Salina from Lidl, and Kian and Keira from Kwik Save, before it went bust.
She bought her eldest, Samuel, six years ago. She and Peter argued about whether to get a boy or a girl. She gave in since Peter was so adamant. He chose a Samuel because it said ‘active’ on the box. He had big ideas about playing football in the park. When Samuel was two she popped to the shops to escape toilet training and tantrums, and returned with an irresistible Chloe. After that she hadn’t planned on having any more, but when the twins were on offer two years ago it just happened. She entered the supermarket without the protection of a list, and the next thing she knew she was pushing a double-seated trolley.
Now she arms herself on visits to the supermarket. The list is holstered in the front pocket of her jeans, ready to be drawn, ready to avert disaster should she need it. And yet recently it hasn’t offered the protection she has come to expect. Occasionally she loses focus, lets her guard down. Away from the burnt toast smell, the crumbs and the discarded pyjamas of morning, there are possibilities, choices which seem entirely her own.
Today she started at the front of the shop. She sashayed past the books, wrapping paper and cards. Streamed a zigzag down the non-food aisles, glancing at televisions, kitchen implements, photograph albums and furniture. When she’d browsed the mobile phones, the smell of bread pulled her to the bakery. In between racks of freshly wrapped, perspiring loaves she glimpsed the staff sliding trays of buns into industrial ovens. A crate of fresh, cheesy bread was waiting to be placed on a wire shelf. It was floppy and warm. The smell went straight to her head. Despite her resolution to stick to the list, she put two batons in the trolley. And, in the face of her weakening resolve, she helped herself to a cinnamon roll, an almond croissant, and a box of caramel shortbread: New and Improved. She shopped at Waitrose once, but you couldn’t help yourself there. The in-store bakery was old-fashioned. The cakes sat behind glass like sculptures and when she asked for two slices of white chocolate tiramisu, she felt like Oliver Twist. There were things in Waitrose that she had never seen before. Shellfish platters crammed with so many legs it seemed that they might scuttle away if she averted her eyes. Tians and terrines layered in fishy, eggy stripes. Posh pork pies topped with apricots and cranberries. Food that she couldn’t pronounce: mini galettes, blinis and bright, rubbery-raw fish lined up in slimy, sparkling rectangles. She couldn’t find the chicken nuggets and the baby aisle was packed with Archies, Sebastians and Theodores. She went back to Tesco the following week.
From the bakery she whizzed to the produce aisle and, in defiance of the arctic weather, grabbed a punnet of strawberries. An elderly man with a shopping basket smiled at her. ‘Strawberries, eh?�
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‘Yes.’ She smiled and nodded at him.
‘What about cream?’ The old man peered into her trolley and laughed as if he had made a wonderful joke. ‘You’d better get cream. Don’t do anything by halves.’
‘Yes.’ She smiled again. This time the smile stretched, and she propped it up with her teeth.
‘Any kiddies at home?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Bet they like strawberries,’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘How many kiddies?’
‘Four.’
‘Four? Goodness me!’ She waited for him to say you don’t look old enough. But he didn’t, confirming her fear that she was beginning to wear motherhood around her eyes and in the recently deepening parentheses bracketing her smile. ‘Four!’ He beamed at her again. ‘How old?’
‘Six, four and the twins are two,’ she said.
‘Twins!’ He was delighted. He patted her shoulder in congratulation. ‘Two for the price of one!’
‘Yes,’ she said.
In the cereal aisle, Frosties were on special offer. Two boxes for £2. She put a box of Weetabix in the trolley too, a rationalisation destined to sit in a kitchen cupboard with the others. In the next aisle she was drawn to the yellow sign under the Thornton’s chocolates, SAVE £1.50. She saved £3.
When the trolley was bursting with bargains and she’d saved almost as much as she’d spent, it was time to pay, and it was at precisely that moment that the sound and the smell of the baby aisle beckoned. There was a sign at each end of the aisle: You have peace of mind knowing that these children are maximum quality, organic and fair trade. The aisle was packed with Olivias, Rubys and Jessicas. There were rows of Jacks, Harrys and Joshuas. Each child was tagged with an appropriately-coloured label. She stopped to examine a Lily. The Lily was virtually bald and her eyes were the murky, undecided, blue-black of newborns. There was information on her box. Expected life span: up to 86 years (less if raised in Glasgow, may be considerably less in non-EU countries). Height: typically 157–177 cm. Weight: 50–80 kg. New 100-day quality guarantee – exclusions apply.
She moved along the aisle slowly, past the fresh stock and into the Reduced to Clear section. These babies were nearing their best-before dates. They made angry eye contact and cried real tears. She suspected that some of them had been returned, and she shivered as she remembered trying to return Samuel while Peter was at work one day.
‘What do you mean, you won’t take him back?’ she’d cried, dizzy with tiredness, her ears ringing with his relentless caterwauling.
‘We only take them back if there’s a fault,’ the manager had said.
‘But I’ve got my receipt.’
‘Persistent crying is not a valid reason for return, I’m afraid. It’s all in the small print on the underside of the box.’ The manager began to recite it by heart, as if he went through this several times a day. ‘The baby must be returned with all its accessories, packaging, instructions, et cetera, and must be in unused condition. All warranty claims must be made within thirty days. A proof of purchase must be supplied—’
‘I said I have the—’
‘You must return any free gift that came with the baby. We will not accept any baby that has been personalised …’
She turned away and stumbled out of the store with Samuel. It wasn’t long before a little more sleep and a little less screaming made the experience bearable. Peter hadn’t needed to know.
She poked around the Reduced to Clear section wondering if there was a bargain to be had. There was a half-price George with fanning ears and a Maya with red hair. The Maya was tempting. She picked her up and the baby smiled thick, empty gums at her.
A young man in a blue uniform approached. ‘Can I help you?’
‘No, thank you. I’m just looking.’ She put the baby back.
‘We have some great deals today,’ he said, with a sweeping gesture that encompassed the Reduced to Clear infants. ‘What exactly are you looking for?’
‘Nothing,’ she said, glancing at her list.
‘Oh, a list.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘You don’t need one of them. They ruin the mood.’
She opened her mouth to reply, but he beat her to it.
‘It’s no fun with a list and your list is much too small. I can tell. Anyway, lists don’t work.’ He picked the Maya up. ‘Isn’t she lovely?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘She is lovely, but I already have—’
‘And I wouldn’t call her ginger, would you? I’d say she’s more of a strawberry blonde. Look, it says here: “Studious and teachable”. She’s reduced. Think of how much you’ll save.’
The Maya began to cry. It was a rasping cry, pathetic and airy. Her hands extended and contracted as she sobbed, as if she was reaching.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, itching to pick the baby up and console her, but determined not to do it in front of him. ‘I already have four children. I really don’t need any more.’
‘But do you have a Maya?’ he asked quickly. ‘Brand new, latest model. Built to last longer than your others.’
She shook her head at him.
A tinny voice from above called, ‘All till-trained staff report to checkouts immediately, please.’
The young man shrugged at her and began to walk toward the tills. As he reached the end of the aisle he turned and said, ‘If you change your mind later, I can’t guarantee that she’ll still be here.’
When she got home she gobbled the almond croissant and the cinnamon roll as she unpacked the shopping. She put the Weetabix in the top cupboard, and she hid the Thornton’s chocolates under a 3-kilo family bag of pasta. She left the box of caramel shortbread in the car for the twins to nibble on the way home from nursery.
And afterwards, when Peter arrived home from work and they sat around the dining-room table as good families should, she stocked the conversation with improved attentiveness, and longer-lasting laughter, in order to conceal the hoarse, feeble cries emanating from a toy box in the lounge.
My burglar
He always comes at night. In the thick of dark. In the solid, black stillness. In the quiet. In the smothering, pitch silence that stifles the house. I hear the pattern of his feet in the wide hush that packs each room. I hear the snap and creak of the floorboards. The whisper of his hands on the banister. The tide of his breath. I smell the stale tang of urine, of sweat, of wide, yawning pores. I don’t scream. There’s no point. I’m alone. I sit up in bed and push my back to the headboard. I keep still. I peer into the inky darkness, searching for a partition of shadow and form.
Although he has left me alone, he has stolen my Accurist watch, an emerald necklace, a pen and my address book. I watch television. I know about burglars. A man from Birmingham said he was burgled twenty-three times last year. He claimed for twenty-three televisions and the insurance company was very angry about it. I saw it on the BBC. Burglars keep coming back.
I am beginning to suspect that my burglar is looking for something. I don’t believe he is creeping about my house on the off-chance. I think he is after my locket.
‘Don’t be silly, Mum,’ says my daughter Charlotte, on the telephone, bossy and officious. ‘How on earth would anybody know about your locket?’
I wear it, don’t I? How easy it would be for someone to catch a glimpse of it around my neck in the grocers,’ or see it sparkle in the large-print section of the library. How straightforward it would be to wait with me at the bus stop, board with me, alight with me. How simple it would be to follow me down Topsham Road and watch me enter number forty. And how effortless to return later, in the dark, to search for the locket.
‘You’re being ridiculous, Mum,’ says my daughter, Charlotte, on the telephone, unsympathetic and sceptical. ‘You lost that set of keys, they’ve not been stolen.You keep saying you’ll get the locks changed and you haven’t. I’m going to have to look on the internet – send someone round to do it. There’s no burglar.’
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nbsp; Charlotte lives in Ireland. She’s been very rude recently.
Night doesn’t fall in the late autumn, it plunges. It catches me unawares. It crashes around me, throwing itself through the house like an unstoppable, black breaker, and I chase after, switching on lights in its wake, until the whole house is shining like a warning flare. For all my burglar knows, I have guests, a party, family visiting. I feel like Cinderella, safe until the clock strikes twelve. No one of my age would be entertaining after twelve. I always turn the lights off and hurry to bed before midnight strikes. The only thing worse than hiding from him in the darkness would be confronting him in the full glare of light.
My television breaks the broad silence of evening. So many channels. Just enough time to make a cup of tea during the adverts, so long as you remember to switch on the kettle. I like programmes about Americans with obesity. They do these operations on them to stop them from eating. Sometimes they suck the fat out of them with a tube like a vacuum cleaner. Afterwards they all cry and hug each other. It’s very entertaining.
Tonight I’m not watching television. Tonight I’m looking for a hiding place for my locket. My locket is silver. It’s Victorian, oval-shaped. It belonged to my mother. It’s such a long time since I took it off that it was extremely difficult to undo the clasp. But it’s done. Here it hangs, in knotty fingers that I can hardly believe are my own. The locket is worth a lot of money.
‘For God’s sake, don’t lose it, Mum,’ says my daughter, Charlotte, on the telephone, impatient and brusque. ‘You seem to be losing all sorts at the moment.’
I dare say Charlotte is looking forward to inheriting it.
It’s no use hiding things under beds or in mattresses; they’re the first places people look. Unexpected places are best. Sometimes I surprise myself with my ingenuity. Once I discovered my wedding ring in the bread bin. What a marvellous hiding place. Who would think to check there? The kitchen is a good place to hide things. The locket dangles as I examine the worktop: breadbin, biscuit tin, kettle. I plop the locket into the kettle. He will never look there.
