Phosphorescence

by Raffaella Barker

  We are both so inflated with euphoria that one peep into the Tupperware box at the shiny, brown, prickle-backed rolls with crinkled raisin eyes has us both collapsed in giggles.

  ‘I think it’s most kind of her,’ says Dad, removing the lid and picking up one of the hedgehogs to admire. ‘I shall take one for my lunch.’

  He moves towards the chopping board with it, and as one, Nell and I shriek, ‘Don’t!’

  ‘Don’t what?’ Dad is looking in the fridge, bringing out a few salad leaves and a heel of cheese.

  ‘Don’t cut its head off,’ I plead, giggling again because I am begging for the life of a dough hedgehog.

  ‘I wasn’t going to,’ he says, putting it down with its paler belly facing up. ‘I was going to stuff it.’

  This has me slain again, leaning on Nell, who stops laughing first and digs me in the ribs with her elbow.

  ‘That’s good,’ she says encouragingly. ‘Mum does that with hers when she’s doing them for her wine and cheese nights and stuff.’

  Dad looks very pleased to be doing the same as Nell’s mum, and grates his cheese for the stuffing with a jaunty speed.

  ‘What are you two up to today?’

  And as if a connection of wires has been straining to meet and has finally made it, I feel a click and a rush of comprehension as I look at him.

  He is a single parent trying to keep a relationship going with his daughter. I don’t live with him and he doesn’t know anything about my life now. I know too much about his life, though, because I’ve stepped right into the middle of it, and it isn’t wonderful. In fact I feel really sad for him. It always sounded quite cosy on the phone when he called, and he told me things like, ‘Cactus and I are sleeping in the armchair,’ or ‘I’ve been out feeding the hens and hanging my washing on the line and it’s a windy day.’ But now I’m here I can see that it is literally a third of the life we had when we were all here, right down to the way he orders one pint of milk from the milkman to be delivered to the doorstep each morning, when we used to have three. His washing on the line is just a couple of shirts, one towel and two big hankies. It hardly occupies one quarter of the line in our little patch of orchard at the bottom of the garden. I know, because I hung it out for him this morning. I would never have found it if I hadn’t needed to wash my own stuff, and I only hung it out because I promised Grandma I would be a help to Dad, but I never imagined he actually needed my help. The washing had been in the machine for a while, I think. It was clean, but it had that almost mouldy smell of being left there. I wonder how long for? And the bathroom had a spider in the bath and no loo paper on the holder screwed to the wall. I cooked breakfast, but I had to go to the shop to buy bacon and butter because Dad only had bread and coffee. Dad’s life is too big to take on. I prefer to think about the dough hedgehog.

  ‘Shall I wrap it up for you?’ I pull foil from the drawer where Mum kept it, and I look in the wicker basket in the larder cupboard where there always used to be crisps, and amazingly there are still some there. ‘Look, here are some crisps and you can take an apple.’

  Nell passes the fruit bowl, and between us we pack up Dad’s lunch and wave him off. I am crying when I turn back to Nell from shutting the kitchen door behind him.

  ‘It’s hard coming back here, Nell,’ I sob. ‘I thought it would be just the same, but it isn’t, and I feel disloyal for being relieved I don’t live with Dad now, even though I can see that he needs someone around.’

  Nell puts her arms round me and we stand close together in the kitchen. I am so glad she is my friend. Even thinking it makes me cry more.

  ‘Mum says I may have to choose when the divorce comes through, and I thought I would choose to come back here, but I don’t know now.’

  We sit on the sofa at the end of the kitchen overlooking the quay. Our house is slightly raised, built to withstand floods, so we have a big view. Looking out at it, with Nell stroking my arm, I calm down. She is wearing a white top with hearts on it and her hair is a vigorous spray of auburn from a high ponytail. She has the straightest white teeth when she smiles.

  ‘Ohmigod!’ I scream, finally noticing something that isn’t directly focused on myself. ‘Your braces have gone! Why didn’t you tell me? When did it happen? You look so amazing. Your face is a different shape. Wow, Nell.’

  Nell smiles a huge toothpaste-commercial smile.

  ‘I wanted you to see the reality,’ she says.

  Now my that self-absorption has peaked and is beginning to pass, I have a thousand questions for her.

  ‘Who are you hanging out with at school? Who has taken my place in the play? Who’s going out with who?’

  We would have been there all day if Dad had any food, but hunger pangs get the better of us and we go down to the shop for Pot Noodles and some sherbet dib-dabs, which Nell insists are the most lush thing ever. We are paying, and I have just thanked the third person for asking and said, ‘Yes, I am enjoying life in London,’ when someone touches my shoulder. I turn round, my mouth full of fizzing sherbet, and cough a cloud of it over Josh.

  ‘Hi, Lola.’ He dusts himself down and waits for me to finish coughing. ‘It’s nice to have you back.’

  Unfortunately, I can’t speak. My eyes are watering and I have to gesture to be patted on the back. Nell whacks me and I take a deep breath as we move out into the village street.

  ‘Sorry, sorry,’ I splutter. ‘Yes, I know, it is weird being back . . .’

  Josh is on the pavement and I am in the road, so he is towering above me.

  ‘I suppose you think this place is just a joke now,’ he mutters, and I am too surprised to say anything for a moment. He nods as though I have confirmed his thoughts. ‘I knew it when I saw you in our kitchen. I told Mum you’d changed, but she wouldn’t have it.’

  I want to get right what I say, and I am thinking as I open my mouth to begin speaking.

  ‘You’re right, I have changed, and so have—’

  The flash of anger in Josh’s face is gone so fast I’m not sure I saw it, but in its place he is stony and cold.

  ‘I’m glad you can admit it. I hope you find what you came here for,’ he says, his voice so icy and polite it would have me laughing if my heart wasn’t pounding in shock.

  ‘I didn’t come here for anything—’ I start to say, but he has turned and is walking off, his hands deep in the pockets of his big oilskin coat, his gait clumsy but fast because he’s got waders on, looking ungainly as a seal, as people dressed up for the sea always do.

  ‘Poor Josh,’ says Nell. ‘He’s working for his dad now, and he’s thinking about dropping out of school, giving up his A levels to work full-time.’ We have reached the quay, but Josh is already in his boat, untying the ropes and pulling the engine cord. ‘I think the guy who worked for them had an accident and there is a big insurance claim or something. Your dad will know. But Josh is under pressure, so don’t worry about it, Lola. He’ll come round.’

  ‘Why can’t he finish his A levels?’ The sounds of the quay, the clanging masts and the cries of gulls are so familiar they’re like the voice of a family member.

  ‘Their business can’t afford them to hire an outsider so they need to use Josh,’ says Nell. ‘Otherwise they’ll go under. My parents say this is a terrible time to be involved with the sea for your livelihood.’

  Josh has his sail up now, a red triangle pulled in tight as he tacks out up the creek.

  ‘He’s had to grow up fast,’ I murmur, watching him head out to sea.

  All the time I am in Staitheley I have the feeling someone is watching me. It isn’t a sinister feeling, it’s more as if I have a person watching over me than following me in a pervy way. I don’t say anything to Nell because I have been making enough of a fuss about everything already. I might be paranoid, but I think she’s a bit fed up with me this weekend. I mean, I’ve even noticed myself that I’m behaving as if the world revolves around yours truly. Anyway, I’ll make it up to her. She’s got to come and
stay in London at half-term. It would be so brilliant.

  I’m not enjoying being on my own with Dad. It is really hard to talk about anything because Mum looms like a black hole in our conversations, and everything seems to take us towards the one subject I know we can’t discuss. School, or what I am prepared to tell him about it, is exhausted pretty quickly, and we haven’t even got Cactus with us to provide light relief because he would disturb the nesting terns. The only thing I am glad of is that we are outside, even though I am frozen, as I chose to wear my pale blue T-shirt with gold writing saying ‘Goddess’ on it this morning. I thought about putting a hoodie over it, but I was really hoping we might bump into Josh somewhere on the way, and I had this stupid idea that if he saw me looking strong and serene and shapely in my goddess T-shirt, he would recognize how sophisticated I have become and we could meet as equals.

  Of course, there has been no sign of Josh, and the lovely early summer morning has gone a bit sour. There was no way I could possibly wear the khaki jacket Dad found in the bottom of the boat when he saw my goose pimples. It smelt of diesel and it was desiccated, crumpled in a heap of salt-damp rags. It may be cold, but I am not desperate. I rub the tops of my arms and clench my teeth against the sharp air.

  Occasionally Dad looks at me and shivers.

  ‘Brrrr, I wish you’d put something on,’ he says from the snug security of his classic V-neck tanktop, which I am sure was one of the main reasons for Mum leaving him. ‘The sight of you makes me chilly.’ He stamps and smiles and rubs his hands together as though we are approaching winter instead of mucking about on boats on a heady May day.

  ‘Well, the sight of you makes me cringe,’ I say, when he repeats his desire for me to wear more clothes for the third time. Of course, I regret it the moment the words leave my mouth. Dad kind of crumples, and he can’t work out what to do with his expression for a moment. All the sadness is suddenly there, written in a headline I could not fail to read in the lines of his face, the darkness in his eyes. I feel so guilty I cannot apologize, I just heap nastiness on top of nastiness. ‘We should go back. This is a bit boring and I need to pack to get back to London.’ I am punishing him, but it isn’t fair and it isn’t helping me. I don’t know how to improve things, so I go on making them worse. ‘You should stop hanging on to how things were, Dad. You can’t live like we’re here when we’re not.’

  I don’t even know what I’m saying. All I know is that I want to hurt him. I wish he would say something to stop me, but he slumps his shoulders and sighs.

  ‘You’re right, Lola. I have got to move on, but I’m still here and it’s hard.’

  Oh God. I don’t want to have a heart-to-heart. In desperation I suddenly fling down my bag, take off my trainers and my trousers and scream, as if overcome by girly excitement, then race into the sea.

  ‘Come on, let’s swim!’ I cry. Shit. What a mistake. ‘Oh – oh. Aaah. Oooh!’

  I am gasping, ice tingling hair, the creep of frozen flesh as my waist submerges. All the bones in the lower half of my body ache with the gnawing cold, but I plunge my head under, the water swallowing me, then spitting me out as I rear my head back, gulping, now invigorated, adrenalin racing, more alive than I have felt since I left for London.

  ‘It’s lovely, Dad. Come in!’

  Admittedly, my voice is hoarse, inarticulate and breathy, but I am swimming now, striking out through the cold electric silk of the water, and energy is sparking through the choppy sea. I dive under again, and it almost feels warmer to be submerged now I am used to it. The sea smells of salt and weather. You can breathe in a sense of rain to come, sun that has been glancing off the water all day. My goddess T-shirt is dark blue now, and my boobs are sticking out in a pornographic way that makes me cross my arms when I stagger out to Dad. Inevitably, he gives me the terrible tanktop, and I have no choice but to put it on. I drag my jeans over legs red and mottled like sausages left overlong in the fridge, but when I get my socks on and shake the drops of water from my hair I am glowing. I must be almost luminous, I am radiating so much well-being. And I have totally changed the mood. It was so worth it.

  Chapter 7

  Mr Lascalles is really bugging me. Geography has never been my favourite subject, but since half-term he’s got it into his head that I need loads of support and he’s always coming and talking to me about my coursework project which is mainly nonexistent.

  All I have managed so far is the title: ‘Phosphorescence’. I am really pleased with it. I also have a brilliant photograph I found on the Internet when I looked up ‘Underwater’. It’s turquoise-green sea, and there is someone’s mouth open like they’re swimming, but its blurred so it looks as though they are deep underwater. I spent hours in the IT room printing it and touching it up and I’ve stuck it on the cover and written ‘Phosphorescence’ over it in silver. I think it looks great; so do Pansy and Jessie and everyone, but Mr Lascalles keeps going on about content. No one else has a photograph on theirs, and at the end of the last lesson he muttered something about it not being in the brief. I pretended not to hear. But today, he suddenly decided that the project is meant to be about sea defences, when I know he just said the sea or maybe the coast last week. I am quite unkeen to change from plankton to planks – I just can’t be bothered.

  Of course, no one here knows how much firsthand sea experience I have. I reckon I must know a lot more about it than Mr Lascalles, even though he has got a Masters degree, but I don’t want to boast. And in fact, when I sit down in the school library to finally start my flipping project – because if I don’t do it today I’m going to get a detention – I find that I can’t actually think of one single tiny thing to say. It is so horrible being stuck in a library for a whole lesson when you have nothing to write.

  First, I draw a few mermaids on the back of my folder, then I shut my eyes in the hope that some thoughts will flow into my brain. I think I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I know is that I’ve got pins and needles in my arm, and my face, propped on my hand, is hot and numb. For an awful moment I think I might have dribbled, but luckily not. Jessie is getting going with her project at the next computer. I flick a paper pellet at her and she turns round.

  ‘You were out cold,’ she mouths. ‘What have you written so far?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I mouth back.

  ‘Try the Internet,’ she urges, and idly I type in the word ‘Phosphorescence’.

  This small act changes my life.

  What a nightmare. It is so bad. Who would have thought it? From being about to get detention for my lack of project, I have been catapulted to teacher’s pet. Not Mr Lascalles’s pet though. He said my project was fanciful and absurd, and I was all set to get a C and forget about it when it was just my bad luck that Mrs Bailey, the Director of Studies, decided she was going to read some of my work to see how I was getting on.

  Of course she chose the geography project, and, weirdly, she loves it. She says I have a gift for creative writing. Mr Lascalles snarls when I tell him this.

  ‘You’re not supposed to write creatively in geography.’ He slams his fist on my folder. ‘Where are your facts, Lola?’

  Search me. My main worry now is Mrs Bailey and her enthusiasm. She is out of control and tells everyone that I am a gifted child. Let me tell you, I am not gifted, nor do I want to be. Worse still, she has decided that she is going to read out some of the project in assembly next week. Not all of it, thank God, but the beginning. Little does she know that it is a patchwork of deceit, made up of things I found on the Internet, combined with some of my dad’s reports on the birdlife at home. I quite often just substituted the word ‘plankton’ for ‘tern,’ as in ‘The migrating plankton return to our shores in April.’ It looks good, and evidently Mrs Bailey doesn’t know any more about birds or even plankton than I do.

  ‘You are to be congratulated, Lola. You have found a way of expressing yourself that will speak to all of your classmates,’ she enthuses, and I can only bear to look
at her face for a moment because her mouth is wobbling with excitement and her chin seems to move freely from side to side beneath it without seeming to be attached to her jaw.

  Mrs Bailey is the kind of teacher that you recognize by her smell and remember for the whole of your life. My first primary school teacher had the same thing – she was called Miss Lord and she smelt of some really nice soap. Mrs Bailey is more essence of violets or some such delicate flower, but the scent is distinctive, and nothing will ever stop me thinking of her when I smell it.

  Mum is thrilled for me when I tell her the awful news about my project.

  ‘That is great, Lola,’ she says, looking up from her newspaper for once.

  She is sitting across from me, with her feet curled up under her on her chair. We are quite like a married couple from a sitcom in the way we have a routine for our lives. I love routine. It is such a relief after the chaos of moving and everything. I have always responded to routine; I often think it is because I lived by the sea, and the tide is the world’s oldest routine, I guess – after the cycle of the moon and the sun.

  Anyway, I usually do my homework before Mum comes back from the office. We cook dinner together, or rather, Mum cooks and I start to help, but then I have to go and put some music on, or call Nell or something, and by the time I come back Mum has made supper. Quite often it’s stir-fry with cashew nuts, which I love. I would lay the table if we had one, but we don’t. We have TV dinner, which is fine when there is something to watch.

  It was really gross a few days ago, though, because they had a programme about plastic surgery on when we were eating. It is so mental to be cutting up chicken breast and posting it into your mouth while watching a surgeon slice into a woman’s face and take out bits that look like meat from her cheeks. It made me want to be a vegetarian for about an hour or two. Anyway, I’m not a vegetarian, but I’m thinking about giving up red meat. Quite easy, as we never eat it anyway. Even easier to give up fish, actually, as I don’t much like it, and I can say so now we don’t live by the sea any more.