A Tiny Bit Marvellous

by Dawn French

  ‘Oh God.’ I knew what that meant, I’ve always been aware he harbours a sort of volatile Neanderthal just beneath the skin. His mother told me when I first knew him that, ‘He has the temper of a tethered Doberman, but more snappy.’ I’ve never witnessed it in all these years, but I’ve had no doubt that it lurks there.

  ‘Is he alive?’ I was only half joking …

  ‘Yeah … Sadly.’

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve got a corker of a bruise and Pamela’s put a stitch in my lip. Otherwise I’m fine.’

  Typical Pamela. As long as I can remember, Mum has never let us get stitches elsewhere, she kept a kit from her nursing days and always does any tiny cuts for us. She is a better seamstress than any doctor, she claims, and she’s right.

  ‘Well … come home soon then …’ I meant that. I wanted him home, I wanted him back. Back home … where we both belong.

  ‘Yep. Just having a big slice of –’

  ‘Whisky fruit cake?’ I interrupted.

  ‘Yeah. S’delicious. Even with a split lip.’

  ‘I know. Don’t be long. Dora’s in a right ol’ state. Do you think we should call the police?’

  ‘Not sure. We’ll talk when I get back.’

  I put the phone down and went to talk to Dora. The famously unforgiving Dora.

  I took a deep breath. ‘I know you are annoyed with me, Miss Dora, but let me say this in my defence as your mother – if you ever EVER agree to secretly meet someone you don’t know ever again, I will kill you. ’Til you’re dead, OK? ’Til you are like, SO dead? Coz I like, so love you and you’ve like SO pissed me off now. Coz you could of got hurt or something? Or you could of got dead or something? And if that had happened, I would of, like, so killed you. You twatty wonk!’

  She couldn’t help it. She laughed. She so didn’t want to, but she so had to. Then she started to cry, and then she fell into my arms and blubbed about everything bad in her life for about an hour and a half ’til Husband arrived. Dora, crying on me. It felt like home again, like I’d properly come back. I am among the lovely chaos again.

  Later, in bed … afterwards … I whispered in Husband’s ear.

  ‘Thanks for being here. And for being there.’

  SEVENTY-SEVEN

  Oscar

  Not every chap can claim a hero for a father, but, presently, I can. The Pater is, of course, rejecting all praise in his usual self-effacing manner. It requires a very fine nature, I think, to resist such overtures, especially when the plaudits emanate from such ordinarily sour gooses as one’s own silly daughter and selfish wifelet, who so rarely bother to notice one’s acts of honour. By all accounts – well, by his account, which was so strangulatedly wrought from him – he was more than a tiny bit marvellous in his defence of Droney Dora’s safety.

  Why the daffy wretch insists on putting herself in the path of danger so very often is beyond my ken. I think it might be prudent for Luke and I to be more actively involved in her love life in future. I’m certain that any chap who had to pass through our proposed rigorous audition and interview process would be a far superior candidate to any she might stumble upon in cyberspace … Either that, or we could provide our services as chaperones, thereby weeding out and eliminating all unlikelies from the vantage point of companion and spy. Thus, the woeful flotsam and jetsam that is the bilious human soup of the internet shall be washed up on some far foreign shore, and be of no threat to my silly sibling.

  Master Wilson and I are blessed with a curse. The curse of immaculate taste. We would, I’m sure, immediately identify all knaves or savages who might dare to come sniffing around her and we could speedily dispatch them with a sobering and sassy bon mot or two. Nothing trumps a chap’s audacity so much as a witty rejoinder. If one is as fresh and nimble-witted as one might dare to presume one is, then it is surely one’s duty to enter into a minty badinage of waggish banter as often as one possibly can. How else might one sharpen one’s esprit?

  This is the fundamental difference between the Pater and myself. Where he might unleash his brawn, I might rather unshackle my biting drollery as my chosen weapon. I would have certainly ridiculed that odious predator right out of that park with a barrage of smart, rapid-fire japes. There’s many a slip twixt swing and quip. Whereas Papa always has to rely on and resort to his natural animal instincts, bless him.

  I can’t reiterate strongly enough, though, that if one finds oneself compromised in such a manner, one is grateful for the sheer physical courage of a simple shallow chap such as he. For that noble reason, I am suggesting the elevation of the Pater to the rank of premier corps of The Enchantings. I may even be persuaded to craft him a medal. Or … no … rather, a bijou little jewelled adornment of some sort, a decoration in the style of regalia, with perhaps an array of frills and furbelows, trinkets and baubles. It would certainly be dandy to fashion, as the centrepiece, a badge with an impressive crest upon it. A family motto perchance, or an acknowledgement of his heroic achievement. Something that tells us he is a king amongst men and the undisputed Head of the Battle family. ‘Rex inter homines. Dux familius Battalius’ … or some such thing. Yes! I shall set about it this instant so it will be ready for him to wear for work tomorrow.

  SEVENTY-EIGHT

  Dora

  Dad looks proper mashed-up. He’s got a big fat red lip with stitches in, and like, bruises all over. Mum says he will have a huge black eye by tomorrow. But he was obviously well the winner, I think. For the first time I looked at my dad and thought that, OK, he’s not a buff dad or anything but come on, he’s like so well fit for doing that. He proper ghetto-style beat up that creep.

  I wanted to go straight back on Facebook and tell X-Man where to like shove it and everything, but then I remembered the computer was broken. But then Dad said actually it wasn’t broken, he’d just disabled it or something and taken my phone which also isn’t broken, pacifically so that I couldn’t contact X-Man. That was well dodgy of Dad. But I can see why he did that now and I’m well glad he did. I’m so not going to talk to anyone hardly now on there, coz you really don’t know who might be a total freak or something, or someone.

  We all stayed up like really late and instead of getting pizza, Mum made toasted sandwiches, which was tons better. I had mine with bananas and Nutella. That is so my favourite meal which I would like so choose if I was being hanged the next day or something? I was glad Mum was here to tell it all to. For the first time in ages, we had a proper talk, with her listening and looking right at me ’n’ everything. She just kept smoothing my hair and saying, ‘I’m sorry Dotty, that must be hard’ and ‘that must be awful’ and stuff like that, when I told her all my bad stuff.

  ‘Fact is,’ she said, ‘you just made a mistake, that’s all. Everyone does that. We all do. Even Poo made a mistake – but look what we got – Elvis! I make loads of mistakes all the time. LOADS.’

  It was well weird to hear her say that coz she’s normally the super-perfect one who like never gets it wrong. But she said some good stuff about how I must of been feeling lonely and stuff and how that would make me feel more like I could take a risk that I shouldn’t, like agreeing to meet X-Man when I didn’t know him. And that’s true, I think. I didn’t have anyone to talk to. And she said sorry again for that, and then I went and told her about the X-Factor auditions and it was, like well surprising because she said to go for it!! I never ever expected that! She even said she would come with me and stuff, or like, even just take me there if I wanted and stuff! That would be sooo good, because even though I fight with her a lot, I still like bloody need her to be there sometimes for the important stuff. Not like in the actual room with me, but like outside holding all my make-up and my glasses and my lunch and stuff. Everyone needs someone to do that, you know, be a mother slash servant type person.

  She said not to worry, that we will always, no matter what, be ‘connected at a profound level’ whether I like it or not. Well. Actually. I do like it.

  J
ust had a text from Lottie, it says, ‘Have dumped Sam. Creep. Huge mistake. Sorry. Need You. Please?’

  Yeah, we all make mistakes …

  SEVENTY-NINE

  Mo

  I know it’s over. I know that, but honestly, how rude to not even acknowledge it. No message, no call, no nothing. I feel completely dismissed and unbelievably foolish. Humiliated. Did it all really mean absolutely NOTHING? Am I so supremely disposable?

  In the car, the same old journey, left, right, left, second right. The same shops, school, cricket ground, war memorial. Not as zingy bright as before, when I was in … what? ‘love’? no, ‘lust’? no, ‘lost’? yes, maybe. Not as colourful as when I was in lost. I don’t mind that it’s not so bright, because that was clearly a trick of the light. My heart fooling my eyes. But now, today, my eyes are seeing all this familiar stuff again, flicking over it all, and finding comfort that it’s still the same. Everything has remained the same except me. I have been somewhere different for a while and experimented with being someone different. Am I changed? Not sure.

  As I drew up outside work, my mouth went suddenly dry, and I felt extremely anxious. I was about to see him. Should I ignore him? Pretend I hadn’t gone to the hotel? Be cool? No, I had tried to call him, he would know that. Should we have a debrief of some kind? Schedule in a session so we could have the ‘closure’? How clinical and cold is that? Should I smile? Frown? How was this going to play out?

  Lisa was there, behind her reception desk on which was set up a strange contraption. A tin bowl, covered with a huge leaf from one of the big pot plants, all perched on top of a small gas camping cooker. A clear tube was poking through the leaf at one end and into Lisa’s coffee mug (‘Survive or Die’ emblazoned on it) at the other.

  Something in the tin bowl was boiling and dripping out of the tube into her cup. I stopped in my tracks to digest what I was seeing.

  ‘It’s a desert still. Turns the steam into fresh water. Never ever drink sea water or urine, Mo, unless distilled like this.’

  ‘And that is … ?’ Why did I ask? I knew.

  ‘Urine. My own. Will be good drinking water within the hour. Care to join me?’

  ‘Um. I would, but I’ve got a bottle of arsenic in my bag which I think I would prefer. No offence.’

  ‘None taken.’

  ‘Is George in?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Veronica?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘… Noel?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Oh … Right.’

  ‘Haven’t you heard?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘He called in this morning to say he won’t be coming back, which is a total pain since he has endless bloody clients, only halfway through their sessions … actually, that’s a point, I need to reschedule some of those into your list, Mo –’

  ‘Won’t be coming back? What do you mean?!’

  ‘Oh, he got a call from home and someone is v. ill – is it his mother? – I can’t remember, but he has to leave immediately. He’s not even collecting his bits ’n’ bobs from his desk. He’s on a flight to New Zealand at lunchtimeish I think.’

  ‘Right. I see. Right.’

  I started to walk towards my office in a daze. Just going? With no explanation? Just going …

  I was nearly at my door, and I turned back to Lisa and heard myself say,

  ‘Lisa, jot down his home address, will you? I’ll drop his stuff off for him, poor thing. I can, I’ve got an hour before my first client.’ With that, I went straight into Noel’s small back room, and started to gather up anything on his desk that looked personal. Some books, a photo of a younger him with a much older, sour-looking woman with grey hair and an apron. His grandmother I presumed? There were some pens and a notebook with a Maori fern design on the front and a few scribbled notes in it, but that was all. Very little.

  I raced out, grabbed the Post-it with his address on from Lisa and headed for my car.

  He lived in Station Road. I didn’t exactly know it, but it must surely be near the station somewhere? Key in ignition, no seat belt, I sped out of the car park. What was I doing? This was mad … but … I had to know. Why had he not come? Was this ill relative real or not? It couldn’t possibly be his mother – he had told me she was dead. Was he fleeing? From me? Oh God, if that were true, this was going to be awkward. I didn’t care, I had to face it.

  I drove to the station and up and down various roads in a semi-methodical attempt to find his road. No sign of a Station Road. I stopped by a corner shop where they told me that Station Road was the road leading up to the old station on the other side of town, behind where the new industrial estate is. Damn! Should have used the SATNAV, but I have a pathological allergy to its smug correctness. I headed towards the estate and saw it on the left – there – Station Road. Now, what number? Number 8, Lisa had written. It would be on the left at the other end. Quite a long way up, about where that car was … that taxi. The driver was loading seemingly the last case into the boot and a man was locking his front door. The man, who was, yes, was Noel, but different – a kind of crunkled bald version of him, strangely stooped. He was about to leave. I beeped my horn and tried to park my car awkwardly in the only space I could find, which was too small. I leaped out of the car with its back end still sticking out into the road, and hurried towards him.

  ‘Noel! Noel?’

  He was shuffling towards the taxi. What was wrong with him? Where was his hair? As I came closer, I could see he was trying to shuffle faster but couldn’t. He was walking on a crutch and had his other arm out of the sleeve of his jacket and bound up. His head was shaven with a long line of stitches over a livid red gash. He was bruised and broken. One eye was half closed and I could see he had some kind of vicious-looking wiring in his mouth.

  ‘Oh my God, Noel. What’s happened?’

  ‘I’m sorry …’ It was hard to understand what he was saying through the metal hardware.

  ‘Were you in a crash?’

  ‘I have to go. I’m sorry …’

  He looked squarely at me for the first time.

  ‘I’m sorry … I’m … just … lost … I didn’t mean … any real harm … I wouldn’t.’

  He held my gaze. It had that same familiar intensity but this time contaminated with a kind of sinister shame. Each of his mumbled words hit me like a blow. In that enormous moment, I knew. He was X-Man. He had made sure I was out of the way, pitifully longing for him in a cheap red hotel room, and had been to meet Dora … And met Husband instead.

  I was instantly infected with his shame because it was mine also. I had so unforgivably, so easily bought the whole pathetic scenario, and had played right into his nasty little hands.

  He tried to speak …

  ‘I do like you –’

  I slapped him hard on his battered face.

  The taxi driver was shocked …

  ‘Hey, Mrs! Steady on. He’s hurt himself!’

  ‘Yes. He has. And everyone else … Fuck off. Fuck right off, right now!’

  He climbed into the car and they drove off. I was shaking. With remorse, with fury, with disgrace.

  EIGHTY

  Mo

  TWO MONTHS LATER …

  So. October. The winter hasn’t yet quite closed in but the trees are showing off their pre-winter coats. And I am showing off my new winter coat. Pamela and I went shopping in Bath as a treat and she wanted to know what I’d like for my fiftieth. I knew immediately …

  ‘I’d like a new coat, I think, Mum. Nothing brown or grey. Something loud and optimistic.’

  We found it in a small shop for tall people. Ironic really that the shop is so small that only one tall person at a time can fit into it alongside the gangly sales assistant. Pamela had to wait outside in the cold and give the thumbs up or down through the shop window as she peered in. However uncomfortable the experience, it certainly sped things up. I spotted a coat on a rail and knew by the first glimpse of just the sleeve of it that it was
to be my winter companion. It has a pattern of huge red roses with bright green leaves on a background of black, which only serves to make the roses look more dramatic. It’s the kind of pattern that can make you look like a walking sofa if it’s wrong, but full of confidence if it’s right. This one is right. I completely love it. It is made by someone called ‘Ann-Louise Roswald’ whose pretty label is hand sewn in at the back underneath a neat little chain to hang it with. That’s a curious name. Just as chipper as the coat. I want to hug her, whoever she is, for making something so entirely cheerful, that fits me so well. Really, I should only wear this coat for ‘best’, but I’m not going to do that. I’m going to wear it every day so that I will never have to catch sight of myself again in a shopfront window as a gloomy spectre. If I see myself now, I will be instead a huge bunch of flowers. Infinitely preferable. When we finally sat down for tea and ‘not-as-good-as-mine-you-can’t-deny-it’ cake, Pamela was as concise and sage as ever:

  ‘You sorted now?’

  ‘Yep, thanks, Mum.’

  ‘Not out of your depth any more then?’

  ‘No. Back on the reef, ta. Can feel it under my feet. Firm as ever.’

  ‘That’s good then, because there’s sharks out in those deep waters.’

  ‘Yes. There are.’

  ‘They can take big chunks out of you. Huge jaws. Five rows of backward-facing teeth. Three thousand teeth.’

  ‘I know. Don’t worry. I got nibbled. That’s all.’

  ‘OK. So long as you’re all right.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Best way to fend off a shark attack? – Punch them right in the nose.’

  ‘Right. Well. Job done then.’

  ‘Yes, or jab their eyes out with a sharp stick.’

  On the way home, she asked me to stop by Dad’s grave with her, and we stood quietly arm-in-arm for a while, remembering him.

  ‘Bet he can’t believe you’re fifty, Mo.’