Drowning in the Shallow End

by Charlie Mellor

  Elsewhere, my sister had become romantically involved with a lovely girl called Chloe; while Allan was spending most of his free time on the outside lane of the M74, travelling back and forth to see his parents who were both unwell. Given that Pennie only ever visited Scunthorpe when accompanied by one or the other; it looked like she could be out of the picture for quite some time. However, Ms Fenton was extremely enterprising and in response to these developments, actively sought new ways to consolidate her position within the group.

  In our weaker moments, we are all more likely to reach out for support, friendship and companionship and Pennie was acutely aware of this inclination. If any of us were ever going through a difficult period, she was fantastic at dropping everything and channelling all her energies onto just this person. It was an impressive approach and one which was impossible to defend against. So when both of Allan’s parents unexpectedly passed away within a few days of each other, it wasn’t long before Pennie made her presence known.

  Following the news of the two untimely deaths, everyone did what they could to help Allan, who was understandably devastated. In reality, we all struggled with what to say to him and how best to provide the support he so evidently needed. I muted the idea that there was something quite romantic about a double-loss. Scrambling around for a positive message from this difficult circumstance, I argued any couple who’d sadly passed away so soon after each other must have shared a love so deep it had made it impossible for the one to survive without their departed spouse. Those of us with children took it in turns to babysit for each other, so the rest of the group could stay over with Allan at his parents’ house. He really wanted to see Pennie, but needed to remain in the area to sort out funeral arrangements, so it was suggested I should travel to Yorkshire to collect her. In all of her visits to see us, I’d never once thought about her existence away from Scunthorpe, rarely considering her backstory beyond the confines of our utility room; so was inquisitive to find out about her domestic arrangements. Although keen for this to take place, Allan was decidedly cagey about how I could make contact with Pennie. Whenever her name was brought up in a conversation, he clumsily changed the subject. When I asked outright to give me the details of where she lived, he mutated into the Master of the Perfectly Opaque Response. Just what is he trying to hide, I wondered?

  By the end of a very sombre week, it was eventually agreed that I should drive over to Leeds and visit his old poly (now the Metropolitan University). On arrival I was told to go to the union bar where I would meet up with Pennie at an appointed hour. Allan had meticulously planned every detail and I was given written information about where to go, what to do and when to do it. I was so naive, it never dawned on me this prescriptive way of meeting up with Pennie was very strange. If someone had added a requirement for a rolled up copy of The Telegraph and a red carnation, I could’ve been mistaken for a shady hit man lining up his next mark.

  Thankfully, everything went according to (cryptic) plan. I did find Pennie and discovered her to be on fine form. We stayed in the bar for an hour or so with some of Allan’s old student buddies, before the two of us made the ninety minute journey back to Scunthorpe. As we arrived, the upbeat Miss Fenton swanned into Allan’s parents’ house looking like she was ready for an extremely long stay.

  During the next week as many of us as possible continued to congregate over at Allan’s house. We would sit in the living room with the telly turned off, curtains closed, leaving little else to do but drink and talk. Right up to the day of the funeral, there was an indescribable atmosphere in the house, a kind of apprehensive energy. It was like an Irish-wake which had continued for days. Stacey, described this alcohol fuelled week as one of the funniest, most emotional and saddest times she had ever known. Allan called it his ‘worst and best’ of days. Pennie really surprised everyone by being both diverting and helpful. She offered support to the desolate Allan and his wider family, and was an invaluable brace during a time of immense grief. The whole group, without exception, was blown away by her altruism. She behaved like a true friend, providing a comforting shoulder for Allan to lean on. Stacey had initially challenged Allan as to why he’d invited her to stay and had told Annie she found her husband’s friend uncommonly irritating. However, during the course of this long week she too recognised how helpful Pennie had been and was first in line to express her thanks.

  In the absence of any rugby matches to channel his hidden anger, Pennie made sure that Allan had little time to dwell on the seriousness of the situation. It sounds wildly inappropriate, but Pennie insisted we all play games, tell jokes and generally entertain each other. Laughter through grief was not something I‘d ever considered before and the marrying of the two sensations made quite an impression on me. Oddly in the days building up to the double funeral, we laughed together more than ever before or since. We were all respectful and sincere in our support for Allan, yet spent hours skirting verbally around the edges of acceptable taste. Charged with a melting pot of powerful emotions we welcomed the distractions we were busy creating. All the humour was black, very black, yet seemed to fit the events around us. We all talked about how we would like to die, how we would like to be buried and what we would each like to be remembered for.

  “Come the day,” Annie said, “you know, when it’s … my time, I like to think that people will look back fondly, remember the good times and feel they can celebrate the things we’ve shared. I’d love it if my funeral were a warm hearted and positive memorial – one where everyone is wearing bright colours and is not afraid to smile.”

  “That’s lovely,” said Stacey, “I totally agree with you.”

  “I can’t imagine anything worse,” said Allan. “When it’s my turn to knock on those pearly gates, I want everyone who knows me to be in pieces, mortified and unable to function. The more devastated they are, the better. I want every single person to be paralysed and completely unable to see a way forwards…”

  I didn’t feel it appropriate to voice it at the time, but intuitively I was more inclined to agree with Allan on this one.

  * * *

  Following a poignant double-funeral, Allan was given compassionate leave from work and stayed in the area to oversee management of the family estate and sell his parent’s house. Stacey travelled back to Scotland but, reassured by what she’d seen, gave her permission for Pennie to stay for a few days. These days became weeks and by the time two months had passed, Allan and Pennie were practically inseparable.

  The unfettered Miss Fenton insisted that you value your own opinion above those of others and Annie and I watched with interest as she rebuilt Allan’s confidence by reinforcing this particular message. She stressed, in order to move forwards, it was critical for him to have confidence in his own insights and hunches, to trust his internal voice. Little did we know her encouragement to have faith in his own views was less about empowerment and more about subtly distancing him from the opinions of his friends and family as she deliberately undermined our influence over him. Looking back, it’s clear that Pennie was cashing–in on the good will she’d generated earlier in the month. I don’t think she was after the money or the house. In hindsight it was far more likely she saw this period as a chance to ingratiate herself with Allan before preparing to dominate, control and ultimately overpower her defenceless target.

  Stacey did her best to maintain regular contact with Allan, but with the phone disconnected at his parents’ old house, she often resorted to calling us for an update on how the house sale was progressing. If Allan was around at the time, they’d talk for hours, which usually perked him up. If her husband wasn’t available, then Annie would act as a go-between, spending many hours placating her geographically remote friend. She appreciated how hard it must be for Stacey and made a conscious decision to avoid mentioning Pennie during any of their conversations. Annie didn’t mind Pennie Fenton. In fact the two of them got on rather well. She understood that when it came to her own husband, Ms Fenton was more in
terested in his (unremarkable) mind than his (unremarkable) body. She was however concerned that it was likely to take another month or two for Allan to sort out his parent’s estate and this would leave Stacey alone in Scotland to fret about the state of her marriage. Empathetic though she was, there was no way was she was about to mention to Stacey that Pennie had practically moved in with Allan.

  Her concerns proved to be well founded. Stacey was alarmed by the way Allan had also stopped mentioning Pennie in conversation. She assumed there may be unspoken problems afoot and swiftly made arrangements to visit him. On arrival, the normally laid-back Stacey made her irritation at the amount of time Allan was spending with Pennie very clear. Although accommodating, his partner was no pushover and could be extremely forceful on matters important to her. Like Annie, she followed her own instincts but unlike my wife; Stacey’s intuition was telling her to put as much distance between her husband and Miss Fenton as possible. Exerting her authority on their relationship, Allan was told in no uncertain terms to return to Scotland and was actively discouraged from spending any more time with the magnetic Ms Fenton. Back home in West Lothian, he therefore had no option but to downplay his fondness for Pennie in order to appease Stacey. However, as I’d soon discover, this embargo only resulted in the formation of a deeper, more underground friendship developing between them. An alliance based on subterfuge, white lies and secret encounters – just the sort of thing Pennie excelled at.

  With Allan out of the picture and no one else around for distraction, my thoughts turned to work. While seven years at the newspaper had flown by, there was no sight of promotional opportunities; the duties were becoming routine and there seemed to be little chance of ever upgrading that clapped out Miss Lincolnshire Echo car. Chasing an improved salary and greater career prospects, I applied in the autumn of 1997 for a training job with an affluent brewery based in North Yorkshire. It was a very demanding role which involved lots of travelling around the UK. Constantly on call to meet the needs of a customer base which hardly slept, it took me months to get used to the pace of the profit driven culture. With much less emphasis on team work than I’d been used to in newspapers, I discovered the most ruthless of my colleagues wore the smartest of suits. The shinier the silk tie, the more careful you needed to be around them.

  It turned out I’d once again found myself inexplicably pulled towards a position where all my colleagues were fanatical about organised sports – especially bloody football. Pennie would have loved the irony of it all. The brewery was considered a legitimate career move for former professional players because it was well paid and inherently social. The company sponsored many high profile events across the UK and as part of my role I was required to attend football, rugby, cricket and golf tournaments. It was hell and involved regular trips to Castleford Rugby Club, Blackburn Rovers, Elwood Park, Wigan DW Stadium and The Fosters Oval to endure. Some idiot even went on to displace a competitor on the bars at Scunthorpe United and Grimsby Town Football Club. Living the closest to these two Humberside giants, meant that muggins was volunteered to represent the brewery at every one of their home games, so that invited customers could enjoy the taste of our lavish hospitality. This was one of my least favourite activities. The so-called benefit of being able to watch a match for free in the box, while plying greedy customers with free drink, made the tedious requirement even less attractive.

  The language of sport had always proved to be a difficult one to master – especially without the motivation to recite it. However, an even more testing aspect to this new job was the amount of time I was expected to spend behind the wheel of my (rather opulent) company car. The majority of the working day seemed to be taken up driving to the head office in Tadcaster, or heading off to one of the many regional centres. As usual Kismet had conspired against me. Here I was locked into a new job which demanded I drive hundreds of miles each week on some of the country’s busiest motorways; just to fane interest in another boring sports meet.

  The one saving grace was that Tadcaster was only about five miles away from my sister’s house and so at the end of a long day, I could usually pop over and see Kirsty for a cup of tea and a natter before making the journey home. The brewery was never a nine-to-five job. Since many of the customers were only available outside of normal office hours, it wasn’t uncommon for us to arrange our team meetings at unusual times. If these went on especially late, I would ring my sister and ask if it was alright to stop over. This saved going all the way back to Scunthorpe and meant that I was only a couple of minutes from the work next morning. Usually Kirsty would be downstairs watching telly when I arrived, sometimes she would be with new partner Chloe, sometimes they would be joined by Pennie.

  More often than not Kirsty and Chloe would be first to bed. This meant that if Pennie was around, I’d have her undivided attention. While I was always thrilled to catch up with her, I did notice that when we were alone she tended to probe much deeper than before into my values and beliefs. Question by question, she would unveil larger vulnerabilities, clinically laying each of them out ready for the closest of inspections. I tried to suggest that some secrets were best left unspoken - but interloper Pen just pressed me to share more. No subject was ever taboo. The stories she insisted hearing about were always the most embarrassing, the uncommon, the awkward and the salacious. During some nights in York she would chastise me so much over the things I had revealed, that I felt quite overwhelmed by it all. Where was Annie when I needed her?

  There was no way I could appreciate just how corrosive her psychological techniques actually were. The more I told her, the more reliant on her I became. By continually pushing for more information about my past, Pennie discovered aberrations I never even knew about. She claimed if we are all a product of the world into which we are born, then, I was in big trouble right from the start. This puzzled me because up to this point, I’d been rather smug about being born at the same time the James Bond franchise was launched; the same year the Rolling Stones were formed. Scanning my early history, Pennie reminded me of the date and time of my birth - right at the epicentre of the Cuban Missile Crisis, or what she called ‘The Moment of Optimum Global Tension’. She thought it significant that I’d appeared at the very point where the world was charging towards Armageddon; the same time the entire population was holding its breath in fear of mass devastation. Pennie argued the identical timing of these two disparate events probably contributed to my somewhat hesitant nature. She also claimed that it was inevitable that I would spend much of the next forty-odd years, trying to resist an overpowering inclination to define myself by the world I’d been born into; an environment overflowing with trepidation and uncertainty. This second observation struck an even bigger chord. If I hadn’t considered it before she pointed it out, I sure as hell did now.

  Once she’d managed to persuade me I’d probably never be able to escape the sense of impending doom which had informed my arrival; her attention swiftly turned to the early lives of my other family members. Pennie was especially keen to discover what they were like as children. When were they born? What were their secrets? What were their shortcomings? These were all the topics I wanted to avoid, fearing there was far too much for Pennie to play with.

  I desperately hoped she wasn’t going to try to undermine the love I had for my family. I recognised that in her presence I was like a little lapdog vying for attention and usually felt compelled to tell her about my life, but the thought of having to breach the confidences of others made me uneasy. What if she was intending to be really nasty and began to ridicule my dear old nan for her religious beliefs; my mum’s mother, for her battles with the bottle or wanted to know why my mum tolerated an arid relationship with her second husband? How would I react if she derided Kirsty for her sexuality? What on earth would I say if she started to pick on Annie or the kids?

  No, instead Pennie went straight for the most provocative subject she could think of, the subject three generations had managed to avoid.


  “What happened to your OTHER sister – the one who died?”

  Christ almighty– where did that come from? No one had ever asked me this before. What had happened to her? Here was a question I found impossible to answer, because I actually didn’t know. It felt weird being asked about an event which had clearly affected me and my family, but which I was unable to remember anything about. Up until this point, I didn’t even realise I had been asking myself this same question for years, but was too afraid to express it.

  12. The Pennie Drops

  Pennie had for the first time, done me a gigantic favour. She’d managed to drag something out of me, I’d forgotten was in. Raising awareness of a dead sister I had no memories whatsoever of, was unexpected. I’d once asked my mum about rumours of ‘a third sister’ while studying at Nene College, but then watched as she struggled to respond, to the point where she became quite flustered. I decided not to push the matter, as I could see the subject was distressing her. This solitary discussion was over before it’d started and while it wasn’t especially helpful in terms of finding anything out, I did feel a little more energised once the stilted exchange was over. It was as if the simple act of raising this thorny topic had itself been therapeutic. The aborted conversation with my mother was the only discussion about my absent sister I’d ever had, the only tangible proof she’d ever existed.

  As Pennie drilled down in an attempt to uncover every morbid detail, she inadvertently provided me with the courage to investigate what had actually happened all those years ago. I didn’t consider the prospect of researching into my sister’s life in any way depressing and instead became tremendously motivated to satisfy my appetite for a better understanding. I requested a copy of the death certificate and then in the summer of 1998 contacted elderly relatives still living in the Lancashire area. Travelling to the town where we grew up in the sixties, I visited the modest terraced property where my family had lived; all in the hope it would be possible to piece together a fuller appreciation of what had taken place.