The Good Girl

by Fiona Neill

  We all laughed apart from Ben, who always suspected he wasn’t being taken seriously. He was sitting at the kitchen table fiddling with Mum’s old iPhone.

  ‘I know a lot about this kind of stuff,’ he said without looking up.

  ‘Thank God there’s only one of you and not a horde,’ said Dad, tickling him until he begged for mercy and the iPod Touch tumbled to the floor.

  ‘Don’t!’ Ben shrieked. ‘I’m editing my film to show Aunt Rachel.’

  ‘Can we have a look?’ asked Mum.

  ‘Sorry. I promised she would see the premiere,’ said Ben apologetically.

  ‘How did you do that?’ asked Mum.

  ‘On Skype,’ said Ben.

  ‘You have a Skype account?’ Mum turned to Dad and gave him one of her questioning looks. Dad shrugged.

  ‘What’s your film about?’ he asked Ben.

  ‘The sauna Wolf is building at the end of their garden.’

  ‘Sounds like it’s got massive popular appeal,’ commented Luke from the sofa. ‘Who plays the sauna?’ I looked away so that Ben couldn’t see me smile.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ asked Mum. Ben knew this had grabbed her attention.

  ‘I’ve filmed it at the same time every week so you can see Wolf’s progress. He’s paying me to do it.’ He said this with a mixture of pride and bluster.

  ‘That huge building is going to be a sauna?’ Mum asked.

  ‘A sweat lodge is the correct term,’ said my grandfather.

  ‘You knew about this?’ Mum asked.

  ‘Can someone explain to me in God’s name what a sweat lodge is?’ asked Dad. Now they both sounded exasperated but at least they were in agreement.

  ‘Your mother and I once saw one on a Navajo reservation,’ said Grandpa dreamily.

  ‘Wolf and Loveday aren’t Navajo,’ Mum interrupted.

  ‘He was very interested in my experience,’ continued Grandpa. ‘We were on a fishing trip in Nebraska. Have I ever told you about it? We went up into the mountains to go fishing in Big Elk Park. I caught a huge salmon but your mother wanted me to put it back in the water and –’

  ‘We’ve heard it all before, Adam,’ said Dad sharply.

  ‘Please, Harry,’ warned Mum.

  ‘What’s a sweat lodge, Grub?’ I asked Ben, hoping to derail yet another argument about my grandfather, who was blissfully unaware of the tension he caused between my parents.

  ‘It’s like a sauna,’ explained Ben. ‘You light the fire in the middle and it gets really, really hot. Wolf chants and plays the bongos in total darkness. Then you sweat out all your toxins for hours and come out reborn because you are reconnected with the universe and your problems have gone. Wolf’s can fit sixty people inside. They’re going to charge thousands of pounds.’

  ‘What a load of bollocks,’ Dad laughed. ‘Sweating is the way the body regulates temperature. Sweat glands don’t get rid of toxins.’

  ‘Surely you need planning permission to build something like that, Harry?’ Mum asked Dad.

  ‘Who’s going to notice out here?’ said Dad. ‘Or care.’

  ‘My film is going on their website,’ said Ben defensively. ‘Jay is helping me load it.’

  At the mention of Jay’s name a jolt of electric pleasure shot through my body. I got up from the table and went over to the big window that looked out onto the side of the Fairports’ house, to see if he was waiting for me. His curtains were open and his lamp bathed his room in an orange glow.

  It was exactly two weeks since our first encounter. And one day since our last.

  I hadn’t told Becca or Marnie what was going on because the excitement was slightly dampened by my lack of vocabulary to describe it and the sense that it wasn’t quite normal. The experience didn’t resemble anything my friends had ever discussed. I looked for answers on the Internet, willing what had happened to fit the definition of mutual masturbation, which sounded very Zen, and at least fitted with my expectations of sexual possibilities as outlined by Marnie. But since Jay and I hadn’t touched, it didn’t. We weren’t going out with each other. We hadn’t hooked up. We weren’t having sex. I knew what the relationship wasn’t but I wasn’t sure what it was.

  ‘Are you looking for Juliet, Romeo?’ asked Luke, making me jump. For someone totally wrapped up in his own world, Luke had a spooky way of accidentally stumbling upon essential truths.

  ‘God, you’re pathetic,’ I said, rolling up a newspaper and hitting him on the head as hard as I could.

  Ben filmed the fight.

  ‘Hit a nerve, have I, Romeo?’ teased Luke. I hit him again.

  ‘Hey!’ shouted Dad. ‘Cut it out, you two.’

  ‘She’s killing hundreds of neurons with every blow,’ said Luke, holding his head in his hands.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I said, throwing the newspaper on the floor so that it scattered into a patchwork of loose pages. Dad cleared his throat as he always did when he was about to go into scientific mode.

  ‘Actually,’ Dad started, ‘even a mild blow can cause a protein called tau to fall off the microtubules inside the neurons. In fact a series of mild blows can be as serious as a couple of bad bumps.’

  He looked at his watch and began carping on about Rachel being late again.

  ‘Maybe she’s doing a trilogy,’ suggested Luke. He had picked up one of my A-level Chemistry books just to be annoying. I grabbed it from his hand. Dad asked why he was suddenly interested in Chemistry when he’d done so little work for his GCSE that he’d given it up a couple of weeks before the exam. I could tell by the way Luke’s eyes narrowed that this had hurt him. I felt bad for Luke and then irritated that I felt bad when he had started the argument.

  ‘That’s what they do nowadays with action movies. They work out all the sequels before they even release the first film.’ He began listing examples. Luke was impressive like that. ‘Maybe Ben should plan Sweat Lodge II,’ he suggested.

  ‘Good idea,’ said Ben. He thought for a moment. ‘But what would it be about?’

  ‘You could do a romance,’ suggested Luke. ‘Why don’t you consult Rachel? She’s big on romance.’

  ‘Rachel is always in big demand,’ said my grandfather, who often irritated Mum by insisting Rachel was busier than her. ‘She’s probably been held up at work. Marvellous how much she takes on.’ Mum bristled.

  We all now knew, apart from Grandpa, that Rachel was coming for a summit meeting to discuss what to do with him. Mum and Dad had had another big row after he used Dad’s chainsaw to scalp the hedge that marked the boundary between our house and the Fairports’. After this they had finally agreed that he was well enough to go home but not well enough to live on his own. But I should have known from previous experience with Mum and Aunt Rachel that the motion up for debate was rarely the one they ended up wrangling over.

  In the end Rachel arrived so late that evening that tempers had already frayed. Dad’s butterflied lamb was overcooked and he wanted Mum to concede that Rachel was ‘selfish, narcissistic and probably at Mr Harvey’s house having a preprandial shag’. Dad thought we were out of earshot.

  ‘What’s a preprandial shag?’ Ben had asked.

  ‘It’s something people do to work up a good appetite,’ said Rachel, suddenly appearing in the kitchen. She looked amazing. She was actually glowing. I wondered if this was how people looked after they had sex. Dad didn’t flinch. I knew he felt bad because later when we had eaten pudding he asked her how everything was going with Mr Harvey.

  ‘It’s brilliant,’ said Rachel. ‘Even better than your almond and orange polenta cake.’

  ‘Must be very good then,’ said Dad.

  ‘It’s early days though, Rach,’ Mum advised. ‘Take it slowly.’

  Which completely contradicted her favourite piece of advice about seizing the moment. ‘Like you did with me?’ teased Dad, putting his arm around Mum. It was part of family mythology the way Mum had met Dad, got married and given birth to Luke exactly nine mon
ths later, all because of Johnny Cash. A coup de foudre, as Dad called it. Although now I knew it was more likely lust at first sight.

  ‘Time for bed, Ben,’ said Mum, evil-eyeing Dad for encouraging Rachel’s reckless streak.

  ‘Show me your film tomorrow, Ben,’ said Rachel.

  ‘Sure.’

  Ben grabbed the last slice of cake without asking and ran upstairs before Mum could stop him.

  ‘He’s going to hide it in his bedroom,’ Mum told Rachel.

  ‘He’s still doing that?’

  ‘Old habits die hard,’ said Mum.

  ‘Let him be,’ said my grandfather. ‘He’s a good lad. Did you know he’s teaching me how to use the Internet to book my holiday?’

  ‘You’re going away?’ asked Rachel incredulously.

  ‘I’m planning a tour of eastern Europe,’ said my grandfather joyously. That was news to all of us.

  ‘You can’t possibly go away on your own,’ said Rachel, who was always far more direct with my grandfather than Mum.

  ‘Are you planning to travel independently or go with a tour operator?’ asked Mum, trying to humour him without really agreeing to anything. It was a strategy she employed with us.

  ‘Stop treating me like a child, Ailsa,’ he said abruptly.

  Grandpa started outlining possible itineraries. It all sounded so convincing that I began to wonder whether it really was a bad idea. Then I remembered the day Mum and I found him by Granny’s grave and imagined what would happen if he got confused and wandered off.

  ‘Dad, you’ve got to face up to reality,’ said Rachel angrily. ‘We need to talk about your future.’

  ‘Calm down, Rach,’ Mum urged. ‘That isn’t the way to handle him.’

  ‘I don’t need handling,’ shouted my grandfather.

  ‘I’m off out,’ announced Luke, getting up from the table and throwing on his jacket. He was always the first to leave at the first sniff of trouble.

  ‘Really?’ said Mum. ‘It’s after ten thirty.’

  ‘Friday night,’ said Luke with a shrug. His shoulders strained against his coat. ‘I might stay over at Stuart’s.’

  ‘You’ve got mocks in less than a week. And you won’t see Rachel.’

  ‘I’m staying at Matt’s … so I won’t be here until lunchtime,’ said Rachel, trying to sound apologetic but unable to hide her joy at the prospect. Mum opened her mouth but said nothing.

  ‘Of course,’ said Dad quickly. ‘That makes complete sense.’

  ‘I’ll be back by lunch and I’ll revise in the afternoon,’ said Luke.

  ‘How are you planning to get to Stuart’s?’ asked Mum.

  ‘Loveday’s giving Marley and I a lift,’ he said, as he closed the door behind him.

  ‘Marley and me,’ said Mum, muttering, ‘Bloody woman,’ under her breath. I couldn’t face listening to her moan about Loveday so I went into the sitting room and took advantage of Luke’s departure to lie on the sofa. I picked up my Chemistry book and was furious to see that he’d drawn smiley faces on all the atoms in the chapter on nuclear fission.

  ‘She’s fine, Ailsa,’ said Dad. ‘Different. But fine.’

  ‘I’ll say just one word: denim miniskirt.’

  ‘That’s two,’ said Dad.

  ‘Legs like a thoroughbred,’ said my grandfather, using one of his favourite phrases. ‘Nothing more boring than growing old gracefully.’

  ‘At least that’s one affliction you’ve spared us from, Dad,’ said Rachel. They all giggled, even Mum.

  ‘They’re good neighbours,’ said Dad. ‘And we need some new friends,’

  ‘What’s wrong with our old ones?’ asked Mum.

  ‘They’re not here.’

  ‘She has no parameters,’ said Mum. ‘Who lets their teenage children go out at eleven o’clock at night the week before exams?’

  ‘Quite right. I used a bike to get everywhere,’ said my grandfather, as if it was the mode of transport that was the problem. ‘Georgia and I used to cycle all the way along the coast to go to dances in Cromer. I remember one night a harvest moon came up from behind the marshes. We stopped to watch. It was so heavy and voluptuous. Georgia bet me a pound it wouldn’t be able to rise. I won. I kept the one-pound note.’ He stopped. I didn’t turn round. I imagined his eyes filling with tears. Instead he continued cheerily, ‘Did I tell you that Wolf let me have a go on his exercise bike this afternoon? It’s hooked up to a screen, and I cycled through Prague so I get to know the layout of the city before my trip.’

  ‘I hope they don’t mind you spending so much time at their house,’ said Mum. It was a good example of her doublespeak. What she really meant was that she’d rather he didn’t go there at all. ‘Maybe you should think about going on a cruise?’ she suggested. ‘There are plenty of people to help you out in case something goes wrong. They even have defibrillators on board.’

  ‘Don’t indulge him,’ warned Rachel.

  ‘Why do you always assume something will go wrong, Ailsa?’ said my grandfather. ‘Chicken Licken was always her favourite story as a child. The sky is falling! The sky is falling!’

  I could hear more wine being poured. ‘Don’t open another one,’ Mum warned.

  Rachel ignored her, arguing that she wasn’t leaving without opening the wine she had bought in Châteauneuf-du-Pape the previous weekend.

  ‘I thought you said you were working,’ said Mum.

  ‘I can work anywhere,’ said Rachel, realizing her mistake.

  ‘Why would I want to be stuck on a boat with a bunch of old-age pensioners?’ asked Grandpa. ‘Going on a cruise is like being in an open-plan prison except the company is more boring.’

  ‘The food is better though,’ said Mum.

  ‘People are forever getting food poisoning on those big boats,’ said Grandpa. ‘You’re always reading stories about cruise ships full of sick people with E. coli which aren’t allowed to dock at any port in case they infect the local population. Toilets overflowing, people wiping their arses with their hand. They won’t let them on dry land, even in Mogadishu. They’re part of a conspiracy to kill old people. It’s part of your plan to get rid of me.’

  ‘If we wanted to get rid of you, we’d let you cut the hedge with the chainsaw,’ said Mum. I stifled a giggle.

  ‘I don’t believe this,’ said Rachel, gulping down her newly poured glass of wine.

  ‘If you’re on a cruise down the Danube I fail to see how you can end up in Somalia,’ said Mum, not unreasonably. ‘In fact I’m not sure that it’s even geographically possible.’

  ‘What can’t you believe, Rachel?’ asked my grandfather. They were both argumentative drunks.

  ‘Well, given that I’d come here to discuss whether you should move into a care home, this wasn’t exactly the row that I’d been anticipating.’

  A terrible silence fell. I looked around the corner of the sofa. My grandfather’s face had gone limp so that it looked as if it was melting. His mouth hung open and his tongue stuck to one side of his lower lip like someone who had had a stroke. Mum, who was sitting next to him, put her hand on his shoulder. He shrugged her off. Then he stood up, pulled his shoulders back and puffed out his chest like an angry turkey and walked to the door.

  ‘If you want to get hold of me I’ll be in Bratislava,’ were his parting words.

  ‘It was a joke, Dad,’ Rachel called out behind him. ‘Come back.’

  ‘The definition of a joke is that it’s funny,’ shouted my grandfather as he headed upstairs, his shoes drumming a slow beat on the stairs like a dirge.

  ‘Well, that went well,’ said Rachel.

  I wanted to go after him, but my desire to hear what was going to happen next was stronger than my urge to comfort him. It occurred to me that this lack of humanity made me spiritually more of a journalist than a doctor and perhaps I should reconsider my university application.

  ‘That was very unhelpful, Rachel,’ said Mum in the even tone that she used when she was about to send someon
e out of the classroom. She had moved to the sink and was noisily scouring a saucepan. I waited for Dad to say that she would scratch the metal, a particular obsession of his since he had gone domestic. He remained silent. ‘A flat has come up in some sheltered accommodation in Cromer. Dad could have his own space but there’s someone on hand to keep an eye on him. It would have been good to talk about that in a measured way.’ The scouring noises got faster and louder.

  ‘I thought it might be a good way to open up the discussion,’ said Rachel finally. I knew from previous experience that she found it very difficult ever to admit that she had done anything wrong and that this was as close as Mum would get to an apology. ‘It’s getting late and someone needed to get to the point. Otherwise this trip’s a complete waste of my time.’

  ‘Don’t even try and make excuses,’ warned Dad.

  ‘Harry,’ Mum said. ‘Don’t get involved. It’s nothing to do with you.’

  ‘Ailsa’s right. This is something we need to resolve together,’ said Rachel, sensing an opportunity for a rapprochement with Mum.

  ‘I am involved,’ said Dad. ‘In fact I’m fuck of a lot more involved with your dad than you are, Rachel. I cook lunch for him almost every day. I drive him into town to stock up on Johnnie Walker. I wash his underwear and hang it out in the garden to dry. I listen to him when he tells the same story about the fish dying in front of your mother and the harvest moon. I take him to the doctor when he gets breathless and I make sure that he’s taken his medicine. What have you done?’

  ‘I phone him almost every day,’ said Rachel. Dad said nothing. ‘I’m grateful, Harry, really I am. I know I haven’t been pulling my weight and that’s why I’m here now.’

  ‘You wanted to hurt his feelings and you did,’ said Mum to Rachel. ‘And you’ve totally undermined our efforts to talk about what happens next in a practical, non-emotive way.’

  ‘I’m still angry with him,’ said Rachel. ‘For how he treated Mum. It’s better to express those feelings than keep them inside.’

  ‘Better for who?’ Dad questioned her. ‘Perhaps for you but not for those of us at the coalface trying to do the right thing by him.’