A Tiny Bit Marvellous

by Dawn French

  That was me then, a satellite wrenched from the orbit of Noel. Spell broken. We sat up and straightened ourselves out. He moved to sit in the chair. I went into the bathroom and sipped water from my cupped hands to stall for time and to ease me back into the uncandled unblossomed world outside this room, which I knew I reluctantly had to return to now.

  When I went back into the bedroom, he took me in a huge wrapped-up, arms-right-round Bear Grylls hug. ‘Right. Listen. You need to go. I get it. Don’t worry. This is only the first of a thousand attempts, remember? The second attempt takes place on Monday. Same place, same time. And so on ’til … well ’til for ever actually, or ’til you are with me. Whichever comes first.’

  ‘OK … OK.’ I was at a loss.

  What do you say when your daughter has unwittingly seized your joy?

  I left quietly and climbed back into my car, tote bag unopened. Me, unopened. I felt completely deflated. As I started to drive home, my mind was a continual rewind, pause and play of all that had just occurred. I experienced it over and over again, feeling the same thrill each time. Multiple thrill. As I was about to pass the cricket club car park, I suddenly swerved and pulled in, stopped the engine and sat still to allow the choking build-up of sobs to escape. I had felt the thrum of it start in the pit of my stomach from the moment I read the text, but now that sinking sensation was rising and urgent. It stoked my eyes and I was immediately a shocking heap of uncontrollable shaking and tears.

  I had been to the edge of the reef. I had stood on the brittle precipice, and seen the lovely dark deep chasm teeming with iridescent flashes of beauty and promise. I had been so very ready to jump, willing to free-fall in and risk it. And now, here I was in the bloody cricket club car park, back on the big thick reef. These were sorry-for-self tears. A waterfall of them, a lifetime’s worth. The build-up of excitement and adrenalin during the day and, consequently, the enormous disappointment had taken their toll, and I was exhausted. I looked in the rear-view mirror and saw a blowfish staring back at me, my face was so puffy. I had to wait until it all went down before I could drive home. In the waiting, the tears would try to come again and the redness would return. And so on it went for over an hour, until I was composed enough to go home, by which time I was, of course, far too late for Dora’s party.

  I crept into the house to discover a scene of mystifying devastation. The kitchen was piled high with plates and glasses and stank of fast food. There was an enormous empty cake stand, covered in the detritus of gooey chocolate cake. What appeared to be eight or so bodies were snoring and snuffling away in the frowsty fug of the front room. The funk was revolting – a mixture of teenage body odour and farts and an ominous smell of burning. Some of the bodies scattered about were people I’d never seen before. Raven-haired manga teens with nose-studs and smudged thick black eye make-up. One of them had her arm and leg cocked over … my mother, in a bizarre mutant embrace. Luke Wilson had fallen asleep cradled on Oscar’s lap and there was a huge smouldering hole in the back of my very expensive sofa. John Travolta was still skipping with his tongue hanging out after a tinier than humanly possible Olivia Newton-John wearing black cling-film leggings on the plasma screen. I turned it off and headed upstairs, away from the stinking carnage.

  Dora’s bed was empty and I found her asleep on the floor of Oscar’s room next to his sock drawer with what on closer inspection appeared to be an unfamiliar giant black puppy sprawled across her face, also snortling loudly. Only Poo woke up and wagged her tail pathetically at me, in the half-light. I patted her head. ‘Well done, ol’ girl. That one must’ve made your eyes water.’ She looked as wrung out as I felt. I crept into the bedroom and went to my dressing table drawer.

  I placed my old and beloved and worn-only-once tiara on Dora’s sleeping head. Neither she nor the puppy moved. I whispered, ‘I’m sorry, Dora. I really am. Happy Birthday my gorgeous grumpy Infanta.’

  As I snuck into bed, Husband automatically spooned up behind, and wrapped his arm around me, murmuring a ‘Yes. Yes. That’s right. Yes’ from the depths of a conscience-free, satisfying dream. I envied him momentarily. I nodded off eventually, my heartbeat chiming in time with his breathing. Deeper and deeper we both sank, together.

  SEVENTY-ONE

  Dora

  I just like so love my new puppy? I’ve decided to call him Elvis coz he’s like so huge and black. Like the real Elvis was. Dad like laughed his head off when I told him that. Don’t know why, I think it’s the perfect name. He’s not going to be a good handbag dog or anything but he’s like way better than that. He so loves me. He loves me best, more than any of the others coz I was the first human to hold him properly and sleep with him, so he probably thinks I’m like his real mum or something? Ducks do that, don’t they? Obviously Poo is doing all the actual feeding and stuff, that would be sick if I did that, but otherwise Elvis totally adores me. He will never betray me. That’s what I know for sure.

  We had to have a massive clean-up this morning after everyone eventually went home. Mum had to give the Emos some bus fare coz they’re too cool to call their parents. The Croatian girl got her words a bit wrong and said to Dad, ‘Thanking you for the lovely orgy,’ which took a bit of explaining to Mum. I’m not speaking to Mum atall after she didn’t bother coming last night.

  She thinks giving me her old crown thing will make me love her. Well it won’t. Caring about me is what will make me love her and that is so off her chart at the moment. Who misses their own daughter’s eighteenth birthday for God’s sakes?! I’ve never even heard of that much cruelty. If I wasn’t eighteen, I could like call Childline or something, coz that is like so neglecting. I did call them once before when I was ill, after Mum shouted at me, but they said that they couldn’t class ‘tidy your cocking room up this instant young lady or I’ll tan your hide’ as life-threatening abuse. Yeah, but they didn’t see all the veins standing out on her scary bright red face.

  After the clearing up, I had to physically push Peter off the computer where he was Skyping Luke who he’d only just said goodbye to half an hour before or something. They were blabbing on about what they were going to wear back at school to break the uniform rules. I mean, please, get a life.

  I went straight to Facebook and there were six messages from X-Man asking me to talk. I was going to make him wait but actually, I so needed to know why he didn’t come.

  It was sooo sweet ….

  ME: So dude. No show?

  X-MAN: Thank God u talking wiv me. Thought u mite not.

  ME: Explanation necessary b4 normal service returned.

  X-MAN: God. So 200% sorry. Had big row wiv Mum who wouldn give me train money. Got no other dosh. Gave it all to Children in Need thing on telly. Swore bad at Mum. She locked me in b’room. Kept key.

  ME: OMAG. I h8 my mum 2. Abuses me. U OK?

  X-MAN: Yeah. Just got let out. Given 5 quid to get bkfast but am savin’ it to C U.

  ME: Aw. Sweet.

  X-MAN: When can meet? I could do any eve nxt wk.

  ME: How ’bout Mon?

  X-MAN: Cool. Somewhere quiet.

  ME: Am 18 now. Pub?

  X-MAN: No. 2 loud. Jessop’s Park? I’ll bring cider.

  ME: OK time?

  X-MAN: 9pm?

  ME: Yeh.

  X-MAN: Sorry again.

  ME: It’s OK.

  X-MAN: Bring music for X-Factor song? I will bring iPod. Can go thru it if u like?

  ME: U so kind.

  X-MAN: Course.

  ME: Ta.

  X-MAN: Can’t wait.

  ME: Me too.

  X-MAN: Tell parents?

  ME: No. Too stressy.

  X-MAN: Yeh. Just us.

  ME: Yeh. C-ya.

  X-MAN: C-ya. And Dora?

  ME: Yeh?

  X-MAN: Happy birthday you bloody Adult!

  ME: YAY!

  Oh my actual God. He gave his last bit of money to Children in Need! I like so love him.

  SEVENTY-TWO

  O
scar

  Discourteous Dora’s monstrous claim that I ‘hog’ the computer is utterly unfounded. The silly wretch employs a mode of exaggeration which is eight million leagues beyond tolerable. The impertinence of the hussy. How unconscionably unjust for the unctuous bovine to accuse me thus. To violently remove me from my seat afront said screen, by use of the swinging of her enormous unladylike udders, thereby unsaddling me from my perch, was unspeakably uncouth. For what purpose? To continue the endless mindless twittering nonsense with her supposed ‘friends’? I have read her unceasing twaddle on occasion and it beggars belief. Their communications are an intellectual vortex, and a merciless time sump. Nothing vaguely enchanting passes there. All is shoddy and vulgar. Take, for instance, the following baffling arrangement of words I once espied when I hacked into her site (of course I know her password, only an imbecile wouldn’t guess it – ‘SEXYDORA’. A contradiction in terms I fear). It went as follows:

  ‘Hv spent all morn. blowing Sam.’

  Hell’s teeth! She hadn’t of course, she’d been out shopping with the mater at Marks & Spencer’s for her particular brand of sizeable underpants. What a singularly uncivil and ugly configuration of fraudulent words. Why in the name of Cat Deeley would she wish to announce such an ungodly atrocity to the world? Could she possibly have thought, somewhere in her unicellular brain, that that would garner her some respect? From what quarter? Perhaps a troop of Marines returning from an unaccompanied tour of the bleakest outposts of Taliban desert? Yes, perchance they, the desperate and lonely, and starved of any female company, might be interested or impressed or fooled. Every other soul alive would surely gag with revulsion or do as I did, and laugh heartily at the unlikeliness of it well into the night and throughout the following day. I suppose one ought to admire the monumental gall of the gal.

  Ah me. How tedious it all is. Fortunately, I had the succulent memories of the previous night’s blissmerger avec the divinely romantic Master Wilson to feast upon in his absence. I dream of Monday. Oh Monday, when we shall be united once more in our own heavenly thrall. How shall I last ’til then? Patience, dear boy, and a host of distractions. Indeed, I had the DVD of Zoolander to amuse me, and thus I watched it from start to finish, rewinding at the crucial catwalk moments. I fancy young Ben Stiller might well be willing to follow Dorothy all the way to Oz should she be in need of a friend …

  Replete with viewing, I returned to the now-vacated computer whence I noticed that Dizzy Dora had once again left her Facebook page open for all the world and her husband to see. I noticed thereupon that she had arranged a clandestine dalliance with one who parades under the moniker of ‘X-Man’. I fetched the Pater in to witness it.

  Now she’s in for it.

  SEVENTY-THREE

  Mo

  It’s Sunday, and I’ve always savoured Sunday. It’s a lovely, fat day. Full of the promise of rest. The household is quiet. Well, not ‘quiet’ actually, but relatively still and controlled. I sit at the kitchen table nursing a ‘hippy’ tea as Husband calls it. This one is a berry mixture. I’d love a sugary white PG Tips but this half-tea half-Ribena is better for me. I don’t want any milk in me, it glues up my brain and I need to be sharp at the moment.

  I can hear Oscar in the den. He’s watching My Fair Lady again and singing along with Audrey, who, in turn, is mouthing along badly to someone else. I can hear muffled sounds of Dora thumping about in her bedroom with Radio 1 on. She too is spasmodically singing along, and doing that thing she does where she harmonizes with the songs and adds too many extra trills to experiment with her voice. I can hear Husband in the study talking to the computer. The wretched thing has crashed and he is trying to cajole it back to life. He thinks he can persuade it to operate by flirting with it.

  So, these are the sounds of my family in my house on a Sunday morning. Added to which I can hear the washing machine chugging on in its endless effort to keep our pants zesty-fresh. I can also hear the slurping of Elvis sucking on Poo. (Now that’s a sentence I never thought I would write!)

  Yes, the sounds of the Battles on a Sunday morning, just being normal. If I do what I know I am going to do, very soon all of this will change, and I won’t ever hear it like this again. As of tomorrow, nothing will be the same, because I now know for sure that tomorrow I am going to jump off the reef.

  SEVENTY-FOUR

  Dad

  It’s something I think all men fear the most. The beast within. I don’t often access it. Maybe sometimes on the rugby field. Somehow the sports beast is a considerably more containable fella. And a welcome oaf to boot. To literally boot. And the playing field, literal or otherwise, is even. There is nothing even about a creep who pretends to be nearly twenty years younger and arranges to meet my daughter in a dark park, unbeknown to her parents.

  What did he think? That I am not awake? Even if I am asleep, chum, I always lie across the entrance so that no one should enter or exit the lair without me knowing. Did he think that perhaps I don’t care? That I don’t care about my first-born and most vulnerable cub? That I wouldn’t have my eye fixed very firmly on especially her? She who is so innocent and colourful? She who attracts the eye so easily and who has so much to offer? The other cub is much more worldly, however eccentric. And he’s a boy. This one needs my full concentration. Not least because she is touchingly grateful for the smallest crumb of attention. And that’s what X-Man offered. The smallest crumb. That’s what he is. The least. Did he for one second think it was OK for her to accept the least? I will never allow that as long as I have breath in my body. I would give my body rather than have her diminished by one so low. One so deceitful and conniving. Does he think I would stand by and watch while the purpose to my life skips into his waiting arms? One so naively trusting? So beautiful? In such a state of grace? Runs to him – a filthy liar? My eye was very firmly on that ball. It had my undivided attention. My full focus. Yes indeed.

  I arrived at Jessop’s Park before seven. I had altered the timing, posing as her. I had to follow my instinct. I hoped I was very wrong. That I would see a spotty young rascal in too much hair gel, a hoodie and trainers, waiting nervously. I even hoped he might be clutching a bar of chocolate for her. Or a can of cider at least. I sat at some distance from the swing park so I could observe without being seen. It was getting darker and quite cold. At seven on the dot, a figure sloped into the park. I was pleased to see he was wearing a hoodie pulled up over a baseball cap, and for a moment I relaxed a little bit, but I watched very closely. He sat hunched on the swing. His head was down and he was fiddling with what looked like an iPod or something with earphones. Promising. Convincing. For a moment …

  Then I started to notice little details that alerted my suspicions. His jeans weren’t right. They were too smart, too … ironed. His hands weren’t right, they were too … elegant. His stance wasn’t right, too … assured. I walked closer. He was looking about, scanning the park, but I couldn’t see him well enough under his hat and tightly pulled-up hood. I had to make a bold move. It was the only way. I approached from behind. Remarkably, he didn’t see me for longer than I anticipated. When I was quite shockingly close, he suddenly turned his head to the side to look at the entrance to the park and I glimpsed his face in profile.

  This was no teenager. This was a grown man. The lines on his face and his weatherbeaten skin were at odds with his clothes. It was all wrong. I said, ‘X-Man?’ He jumped up suddenly and swung round. Before he had even fully turned, I lashed out and landed a good’un on his left cheek with my right fist. It was sudden and instinctive. I didn’t want to speak, I wanted to act. I was shocked by how much it hurt, and by the sheer force and speed of it. I hadn’t punched anyone like this since I was about five. He put his arms up to defend his face, to shield it. For some reason this cowardice infuriated me further and that was the moment it happened. Not before the first punch. Up ’til then it was partially controlled. I consciously only wanted to go so far. But when he did that pathetic, guilty defensive thing, and
I saw the fear in his eyes, that’s when something in me changed. I imagined how that could so easily be the fear in her eyes at the moment she discovered what he was, when she was alone and vulnerable, when he could hurt her.

  In that second I couldn’t forgive him his intent and I felt myself splitting. I separated from me the dad, the husband. That bloke stood back and I let my deepest red-rage break free. It tore out of me with brute force and thundered me towards him like a missile. Ignorant of any fear, I pummelled him with blow after blow. I wanted to tear him to shreds. I slammed into him with my full body weight and knocked him to the floor. It was easy – he was slighter than me, he was in shock and he wasn’t possessed, as I was, by the boiling heat of an angry father bull. I kicked him and then kept on kicking him harder, ’til he curled up in a baby ball to protect himself. I grabbed him by the throat and pulled him up. His hat fell off and he was bleeding from the mouth, spitting and dribbling. His breathing was fast and heavy. I jolted his head sideways and slammed it into the wood of the bench. I heard his skull crack, and I saw his teeth loosen and wobble. It was enough. But I couldn’t stop. I wanted to demolish him. To pulverize him ’til he was powder. To end him.