The Bottle of Tears

by Nick Alexander

  ‘Just phoning Dad,’ Bertie says.

  In a smooth, precise gesture, Victoria snatches the phone from his grasp and slides it into her door pocket. ‘No, you’re not,’ she tells him flatly.

  ‘Now you’re really scaring me.’

  ‘Oh, please do stop being so whingy.’

  ‘I’m not. You’re being weird, Mum. You’re like some kidnapper in a film or something.’

  ‘What rubbish!’

  ‘Jesus, it says four hours and eighteen minutes.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘The GPS. It says it’s gonna take four hours and eighteen minutes to get to Blackpool.’

  ‘Gosh, that is a long way, then.’

  ‘What time will we even get home?’ Bertie asks.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think we’ll be coming home today,’ Victoria says. ‘If it’s four hours and eighteen minutes, it’s a bit far for that, don’t you think? I expect we’ll have to stay in a hotel and make a weekend of it. It’ll be fun.’

  ‘Mum,’ Bertie says, sounding genuinely upset. ‘Listen to me. I don’t want to go to Blackpool.’

  Victoria glances over at her son and rolls her eyes. ‘You’ve become such a bore, Bertie. I mean, I’m sure that’s my fault. Nature or nurture, I suppose it still comes down to me. But you really have. Where’s your sense of adventure?’

  ‘I don’t have one,’ Bertie says. ‘And nor do you, usually.’

  ‘Which exit here?’ Victoria asks as they arrive at a busy roundabout.

  ‘Third exit,’ Bertie says miserably. ‘A5. You know, you could just switch the sound on – on the GPS.’

  ‘I don’t know how to,’ Victoria says. ‘So maybe you can do that for me.’

  ‘Mum, please,’ Bertie says, sounding almost tearful. ‘This is mad. Are you leaving Dad? Is that it?’

  Victoria laughs. ‘Of course I’m not. Don’t be so daft.’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ Victoria says. ‘All right. I wanted it to be a surprise, but all right. Do you know where the biggest, fastest rollercoaster is?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘In the country. Which town has the biggest, fastest rollercoaster?’

  Bertie shrugs. ‘Alton Towers, maybe?’ he says. ‘But that’s not in Blackpool, Mum.’

  ‘No, it’s not in Alton Towers, sweetheart. It’s called The Big One. And it’s at Blackpool Pleasure Beach. Which, as the name suggests, is in . . .’

  ‘Blackpool?’

  ‘Very good.’

  ‘Oh,’ Bertie says. ‘And that’s where we’re going? Blackpool Pleasure Beach?’

  ‘Yes,’ Victoria says. ‘That’s where we’re going. If you can just stop whingeing and start map reading.’

  ‘Oh,’ Bertie says again, sounding less upset but still a little dubious. ‘OK.’

  ‘It goes at a hundred and something kilometres an hour,’ Victoria tells him. ‘Imagine that.’

  ‘Cool,’ Bertie says. ‘So, are you going to come on it, too?’

  ‘You never know. I might.’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘So, you see . . . ?’ Victoria says, now moving into the fast lane and accelerating.

  ‘I mean, that’s still a bit mad, Mum. To just suddenly decide to go to Blackpool. Just for a funfair thing.’

  ‘I know,’ Victoria says. ‘But like you said, it’s cool, too, right?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Bertie concedes. ‘Yeah, it is kinda cool. But it’s mainly still just mad.’

  As Sander drives her up the M2, Penny cries. Occasionally, unpredictably, the tears stop and she attempts to phone her sister, then her nephew, yet again. But neither of them is answering their phones. It’s most upsetting.

  Martin, who she has spoken to, has promised to phone her back the second he finds out where his wife and son have vanished to. But that doesn’t stop Penny calling him twice during the journey, just in case.

  By the time they reach the halfway point, she feels all cried out and just sits, numbly, watching the countryside spin past. From time to time, she glances at her phone again to check, but the only text is from Will, letting her know that he and Ben have arrived in Whitstable, and that the kids (who, still sleeping when they left, have not yet been told of their grandmother’s death) are both fine. Which is at least one thing she doesn’t have to worry about.

  On arrival at Vivian Court, they are led into the manager’s office and offered cups of horrible, bitter coffee.

  ‘I can do this for you,’ Sander tells Penny for the third time. ‘You don’t need to be here.’

  ‘She’s my mother,’ Penny breathes. ‘Well, she was.’

  ‘OK,’ Sander says, reaching for Penny’s hand.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ Penny says, snatching her hand away. ‘Don’t be nice to me, or I’ll cry. And I need not to cry. At least until we’re out of this horrible place.’

  ‘OK,’ Sander says. ‘You old monster.’

  ‘Do I look terrible?’ Penny asks, fumbling in her bag for her compact. She removed her make-up in the car but is suddenly unsure whether makeup-less red eyes are any better than panda eyes.

  ‘You look fine,’ Sander says. ‘That was just me not-being-nice, as requested.’

  Mr White, the facility manager, a suited young man who looks more like an accountant than anything else, arrives with a second tray of coffees. ‘Oh, you already have coffee,’ he says. ‘Oh well.’ He slides the tray on to his desk next to the first, identical one, and then takes a seat. ‘You are Mrs Thompson’s daughter?’ he asks.

  Penny nods. ‘Yes,’ she says.

  ‘I thought I remembered you,’ he says, even though they have never met before. ‘But I do have to check. It can be terrible in this job if you get people mixed up.’

  He explains that Marge’s body, or Penny’s ‘mother’, as he still refers to her, has been transferred to the local hospital. ‘You’ll have to go and . . . you know . . . visit her,’ he says vaguely.

  ‘Visit her?’ Penny repeats, suddenly grasping at a foolish hope that there’s been some kind of mix-up and sitting up straight in her chair.

  ‘Yes, you’ll have to, you know . . . identify the body, I’m afraid. It’s procedure,’ he says. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Of course,’ Penny says, slumping back down, devastated anew. You stupid man, she thinks.

  He asks if they would like to visit Marge’s flat, an offer which Penny declines. ‘I’m not ready for that, I don’t think,’ she says, her voice wobbling.

  ‘And her things?’ Sander asks. ‘Do we need to do anything about those today?’

  Mr White shakes his head. ‘This is her key,’ he says, sliding an envelope across the desk towards them. ‘No one will go in there until you return this to us. It’s her private space still.’

  Penny looks at Sander enquiringly. She can’t even think what she might need to ask here.

  ‘Um, how long do we have?’ Sander asks. ‘To sort out her things?’

  ‘As long as you want,’ Mr White tells them. ‘But the lease continues until you hand back this key. And as long as the lease continues, then rent will accrue. Mrs Cunningham has been paying that, I believe.’

  ‘No, Mum paid it with her housing benefit,’ Penny corrects him.

  ‘That didn’t really cover it, I’m afraid,’ the man says. ‘So Mrs Cunningham has been paying the shortfall. And as her housing benefit will cease, of course, the whole amount will accrue. That’s why most families try to get things sorted out within a few weeks.’

  Outside in the sunshine, Penny sits on a bench and weeps anew, while Sander tries yet again to phone Victoria.

  ‘It’s just not fair,’ Penny splutters as they start walking towards the car. ‘I shouldn’t have to do this on my own.’

  ‘No,’ Sander says, sliding one arm around her shoulders. ‘You’re right. You shouldn’t. Still, I’m here.’

  ‘Yes,’ Penny says, managing the tiniest of smiles through her tears. ‘Thank God.’

 
Once they reach the car, Sander asks, ‘So what now? Home? We don’t have to go to the hospital today. We can come back tomorrow and do it with Vicky, if you prefer.’

  Penny shakes her head. ‘No,’ she says. ‘Let’s get it over with. Do you know how to get there?’

  Sander taps at his smartphone screen. ‘Just looking now,’ he says, then, ‘Oh, that’s easy. It’s down the road.’

  It takes them just ten minutes to drive to St Mary’s, and another ten to find the mortuary. The mortuary thing comes as a fresh shock to Penny. She has no idea why, but she had imagined seeing Marge in a hospital bed. Silly, really, but shocking all the same.

  A male nurse leads them to a vast, chilly room and, just like in Dexter, it contains a wall of metal drawers. He slides out number 317 and pulls back the white sheet, and, as if playing a well-studied role, Penny goes weak at the knees and collapses into Sander’s arms.

  As the death has been referred to the coroner, the nurse tells them, the body may not be released immediately, potentially not for two or three weeks.

  Penny nods and thanks the young man but takes in none of what he says. The whole scene feels surreal.

  ‘I’m just realising,’ she tells Sander as they step back out into the incongruous sunshine. ‘I have no idea how to do any of this.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Sander asks.

  Penny shrugs. ‘Funerals. Wills. Any of it.’

  ‘We’ll sort it out together,’ Sander says. ‘Don’t worry.’

  ‘All the same,’ Penny says, ‘I’m sure there’s loads of things we have to do.’

  ‘Sure,’ Sander says. ‘But you heard the man. We have a couple of weeks to do it all.’

  ‘Is that what he said?’ Penny says. ‘I don’t think I was listening.’

  ‘That’s what he said,’ Sander confirms. ‘They’re keeping the body for up to three weeks. So we have plenty of time to sort things out.’

  ‘I wonder why?’

  ‘Why the delay?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, he said it’s been referred to the coroner. So I suppose it’s so they can . . . you know . . .’ Sander pulls a face.

  ‘So they can do a post-mortem. Is that it?’

  Sander nods.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Penny says. ‘I hate that idea.’

  ‘It may not come to that.’

  ‘I should know all of this. I talk about all this stuff every day. It’s just . . . well . . .’

  ‘It’s different when it’s your own family?’

  ‘It really is,’ Penny says. She unexpectedly gasps, covering her mouth with one hand.

  ‘What is it?’ Sander asks, moving to her side.

  Penny shakes her head slowly. A fresh batch of tears rolls down her cheeks.

  ‘What?’ Sander asks again.

  ‘I just realised,’ Penny says. ‘I’ve no parents left.’

  ‘Oh, babe.’

  ‘I . . . I don’t know why. It just hit me,’ Penny says. ‘I hadn’t thought about it.’

  They have reached the car so Sander asks, ‘So what now? Home? Lunch, maybe? Vicky’s place?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Penny says. ‘Maybe you can just hold me for a bit until we decide?’

  ‘Of course,’ Sander says, opening his arms wide and embracing her. ‘And then food, I think. Despite it all, I’m starving.’

  As Victoria drives, Bertie alternates between feeling excited about riding The Big One and worrying about the incomprehensible change to their daily routine.

  He’d feel a lot happier if his mother would at least give him his phone back, if he could talk, even briefly, with his father. But she won’t even let him use it to google The Big One.

  They stop, only once, at the Hilton Park service station. ‘So where do you want to eat?’ Victoria asks.

  ‘Burger King?’ Bertie replies, testing whether his mother’s character shift extends as far as letting him eat junk food.

  ‘Yes,’ Victoria says, confirming his worst fears. ‘Let’s do that. I haven’t had a burger for years. It’ll be fun.’

  By the time they reach Blackpool seafront, it is 2 p.m.

  Victoria drives straight up to the first hotel she sees – the Hilton. ‘This will do,’ she declares.

  ‘Can I have my phone back now?’ Bertie asks as they climb out of the car.

  ‘No, you can’t,’ his mother replies. ‘It will do you good to spend a few hours without being glued to a screen.’

  ‘But what if I want to take photos?’

  ‘I’ll take them on mine. And I swear that if you ask me one more time, I’ll leave you in the hotel and go to the funfair on my own.’

  Bertie briefly considers the strategic advantages of being left alone at the hotel. He could use the hotel phone to call his father, after all. But it would be a shame to come to Blackpool and not go on The Big One. He can imagine his friends asking him about it and having to explain that he chose to stay in his room so he could phone his daddy. He feels ashamed just at the thought of it. It’s not as if his mother’s craziness is actually life threatening or anything.

  ‘OK,’ he says. ‘Whatever. I only wanted to tell Dad where we are. He’ll be worried.’

  ‘Oh, well, if that’s all you’re worried about,’ Victoria says, ‘then don’t be. I left him a note. He’ll be fine. So relax.’

  Victoria chooses a family room because it has bunk beds. ‘You always wanted bunk beds,’ she tells Bertie. ‘Do you remember?’

  ‘That was when I was five or something,’ he says. ‘And it was only because Max and Chloe had them.’

  But the room is bright and modern and the sea view is stunning and, despite his protestations otherwise, Bertie is vaguely excited about the idea of sleeping in the top bunk in a tower block.

  ‘Do you want to have a shower and change or anything?’ Victoria asks him as she stares out at the seascape.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Bertie says. ‘Anyway, I didn’t bring any clothes.’

  ‘No,’ Victoria replies dreamily. ‘No, of course you didn’t. We didn’t know we were staying over, did we?’

  Bertie climbs on to the top bunk and dangles his legs over the edge. From up here, the view from the window is quite vertiginous. He jumps down again and joins Victoria, who is still staring out of the window.

  ‘Are you all right, Mum?’ he asks.

  Victoria swivels her head to face him. ‘I’m sorry?’ she says. ‘I was miles away.’

  ‘Are you all right?’ Bertie asks again.

  ‘Honestly?’

  Bertie nods. ‘Honestly.’

  Victoria shrugs. ‘I don’t know, honestly,’ she says. ‘But this is all fine, really, isn’t it? So if I were you, I’d just roll with it. Make the most of it while it lasts.’

  Bertie nods. ‘OK,’ he says. ‘OK, I’ll try.’

  They take a tram from the hotel to the funfair. Running straight along the seafront as it does, it’s a gorgeous ride.

  ‘I love the sea,’ Victoria says. ‘I always wanted to live by the sea.’

  ‘Like Auntie Penny?’

  ‘Yes. Well, we grew up by the seaside. You know that, right?’

  ‘Yeah, in Margate,’ Bertie says. ‘I suppose Dad needs to be in London for his job, though.’

  ‘Yes,’ Victoria says. ‘Yes, I suppose he does.’

  ‘Did you really leave him a note? Does he really know where we are?’

  ‘Yes, I told you I did.’

  ‘OK,’ Bertie says. But he knows that she is lying. She has never been able to lie convincingly about anything.

  ‘Look,’ Victoria says, pointing. In front of the tram, to the left, the vast structure of the rollercoaster is rising up before them.

  ‘Wow,’ Bertie says. ‘Awesome.’

  ‘It’s certainly big.’

  ‘Are you really going on it with me?’

  Victoria pulls a face. ‘Maybe,’ she says. ‘Maybe not.’

  It’s a sunny August weekend, so they have to queue for fif
teen minutes to buy day passes, yet once they’re inside, the park is surprisingly calm.

  ‘It fills up later, about four,’ a man tells them when Victoria comments on this.

  Bertie heads straight for The Big One, which also has the longest queue. He’s so excited about the ride that by the time they reach the gates he has completely forgotten the unorthodox nature of their day trip. ‘So, are you coming, Mum?’ he asks, just as a train thunders down the first hill and the occupants all scream.

  Victoria grimaces. ‘Would you mind terribly if I sit this one out?’ she says. ‘I think I’d like to warm up on something a bit gentler. I haven’t been on anything like this for years.’

  ‘No worries,’ Bertie tells her. ‘We can do it again, later. Together.’

  Victoria kisses him on the cheek and steps out of the queue. ‘Be brave,’ she says. ‘You can tell me all about it. I’ll take photos.’

  She weaves her way behind the barriers and then walks to a bench, where she sits. She waves to Bertie as his train trundles away. He looks radiant and she remembers him at five years old, looking exactly like this, one Christmas morning.

  Once he is out of sight, she pulls her phone from her bag and switches it on. She has seventeen voicemails and twenty-three text messages, but she doesn’t consult any of them. Instead, she sends a short, simple text message to Martin.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she types. ‘I’m with Bertie, and we’re fine. I just needed to get away for twenty-four hours. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  Bertie, in the carriage, now clankingly ascending to the summit, attempts to borrow his neighbour’s smartphone so that he, too, can text his father.

  But the girl, a fifteen-year-old with bleached blonde hair, isn’t having it. ‘Bog off,’ she tells him. ‘You’ll just drop it or summat.’

  ‘But I need to send my dad a text,’ Bertie protests. ‘It’s urgent.’

  ‘Sorry,’ the girl says, then, ‘God, I’m shittin’ a brick ’ere.’

  And when Bertie looks down at his tiny mother on the bench below, he forgets about texting Martin instantly. ‘Me, too,’ he says. ‘Me, too.’

  Bertie rides The Big One four times that afternoon, as well as managing to try almost every other ride in the park.

  Surprisingly, of all the attractions, the one which scares him the most is the theoretically tame Wild Mouse. It’s not the speed or the height of the ride that make it the most fear-inducing in the end but its rickety, ancient nature. It feels as if the car could jerk off the track at any minute.