Various Pets Alive and Dead

by Lewycka, Marina

  ‘D’you want to come in and wait?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The Hamburger follows him through into the sitting room and sits down stiffly, knees together, at one end of the spongy sofa. Serge sits down at the other end. Between them is a metre of embarrassed silence.

  After a moment, the Hamburger asks politely, ‘You are often coming here?’

  ‘No. It’s my first time. I’m a bit unsure …’

  He wishes he hadn’t opened the door. He wishes he could call a vet to check on Beastie. He can hear a faint whimpering sound from the bedroom. The Hamburger hears it too, but mistakes its source.

  ‘There is nothing to fear, Serge. Some initial discomfort. You get quickly accustomed.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘You will feel better after.’

  ‘That’s what I’m hoping,’ he mumbles.

  ‘The nature of our work is not healthful. Too much sitting on the underbottom. It is sensible to seek relief.’ The Hamburger shuffles about on the sofa.

  ‘Mm. Yeah.’

  ‘I thought you may be unwell when I saw you were running away the other day.’

  ‘Yeah. I felt … like crap.’

  ‘A sudden urgency?’

  ‘Yeah. Exactly.’

  ‘I think Margaret can help you.’ The Hamburger nods slowly. ‘So you have not heard about Maroushka?’

  ‘Maroushka?’ Serge’s heart thumps in his chest.

  ‘The Nutte has been promoted.’

  ‘Promoted?’

  ‘Yes. Max Vearling announced yesterday, after you run away. But I have always considered her approach unsustainable. Not skill. Corruption.’ The Hamburger sniffs the air as he speaks.

  Serge sniffs too. Their eyes meet, and each looks away quickly. There are some thoughts which cannot be spoken. The stench of corruption is palpable. In fact, it seems to be coming from behind the sofa.

  After a moment’s silence, the Hamburger grins awkwardly. ‘So it is your introduction to the See Eye.’

  ‘Er – what exactly is the See Eye?’

  ‘You are not coming for the colonic irrigation?’

  ‘Oh. I see. C.I.’ He forces a grin on to his face, but his heart is jumping about wildly. That diagram of a washing machine attached to a bed. The hosepipes! The horror! He leaps to his feet.

  ‘I have to go. A sudden … urgency! Will you give Juliette my apologies.’

  ‘Juliette?’

  ‘Sorry – Margaret. I thought she was someone else. You know how once you get an idea in your head …’

  ‘Really, Serge, my friend, there is nothing to fear …’

  The Hamburger’s voice trails him down the corridor and out through the door.

  He presses the button, and a few minutes later the lift arrives. It comes to rest with a loud whiplash crack. He gets in. With a long shuddering groan it carries him down to ground level.

  CLARA: The moggidge

  The news was on the local radio. Edenthorpe Engineering is to close with the loss of up to 700 jobs. By the time Clara gets to school, everyone in the staffroom is talking about it. Mr Tyldesley compares it to the demise of coal mining. Miss Postlethwaite likens it to the fate of the handloom weavers in the eighteenth century. Mrs Salmon worries about dicky dodgers claiming free school meals. Over by the photocopier the other teachers are chuntering darkly. Mr Kenny sees it as an excuse to break the smoking ban. When Mr Gorst/Alan arrives to announce the news, the whole staffroom is already wreathed in smoke and gloom.

  Clara counts the children in her class whose parents work at Edenthorpe. Dana Kuciak, Tracey Dawcey, Jason Taylor – and doubtless some others. Families thrown into insecurity. Parents arguing in the night about money. Kids nervy, anxious, playing up in class, getting behind with lessons. There’ll be teasing and bullying too.

  Ner-ner, you’ve got manky pants! Ner-ner, your mam got them trainers in Netto’s!

  And what about the shops and local businesses? Will people still afford to buy meat from the butcher’s shop in Beckett Road? And when the kids are old enough to go to work, where will they go?

  ‘What I don’t understand,’ she says, ‘is why? I mean, why do sub-prime mortgages in America close down a perfectly good engineering works in Yorkshire?’

  ‘It’s globalisation,’ says Mr Tyldesley.

  ‘It’s the bloody bankers,’ says Mr Kenny.

  ‘It’s just like the great tulip bubble, isn’t it, Alan?’ simpers Miss Hippo. (Bitch!)

  At lunchtime, just as she’s about to slope off to the staffroom to continue the discussion, Jason Taylor stops her in the corridor.

  ‘Please, miss, will you sponsor me?’ He waves a sheet of crumpled paper at her, covered with wobbly hand-drawn lines.

  ‘You know I can’t, Jason.’

  ‘Please, it’s for me mam, miss,’ he wheedles. ‘To get a new cooker.’

  His face has greyish streaks and smudges around the eyes, as though he’s been crying.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jason. What happened?’

  ‘Cooker blew up, and now Edenthorpe’s closed down, she in’t got nowt comin’ in, and she’s gotter choose between a new cooker and payin’ t’ moggidge.’

  Could this be true? With Jason, you never know what to believe. He may be near the bottom of the class when it comes to reading, but he’s quick to sniff out a business opportunity.

  ‘But that only happened today, Jason. How can she be behind already?’

  His reply is pat, as if he anticipated the question. ‘She can’t get a new cooker on’t catalogue because of ’er mobile contract.’

  ‘But why –?’

  ‘Because we went to Cromer for us ’olidays, miss. With me nana.’

  ‘Cromer?’

  ‘Last August. Nana’s got a caravan there. It were reyt good. I got off with this girl. But Mam missed a month on ’er mobile contract. Then t’ cooker blew up. Then she gorra letter saying if she don’t pay t’ moggidge they gonner reposition us.’

  ‘Reposition?’

  ‘Take the ’ouse off of us, miss.’

  He stares at the floor in front of her feet.

  She wants to put her arms around him and hug him, but teachers can’t do that any more. In the back of her mind she’s wondering how much of this convoluted report of the Taylor family’s finances is true, and how much is Jason’s invention. Did the cooker really blow up? Was anyone hurt? Why does Mrs Taylor have a mortgage when everybody else around here is a council tenant? And why does the word ‘Cromer’ tinkle like a distant bell in her memory?

  ‘Can’t your dad help, Jason?’

  ‘Me dad’s dead, miss. ’E were a war ’ero. That’s why they give ’er a moggidge.’

  ‘Really?’

  Is he acting, or does she detect a touch of pride in his voice?

  ‘They said it made no difference ’e were dead cos she could count ’is earnings like if ’e were still alive.’

  ‘Who said that?’

  ‘’Im what fixed t’ moggidge. First Class Finance.’

  Clara sighs, knowing she’s beaten on this one.

  ‘Your mum needs some proper advice, Jason. There’s the Citizens Advice Bureau.’

  ‘She’s been there, miss. They can’t do nowt.’

  ‘Why doesn’t she ask that councillor she met on Community Day? Malcolm Loxley? Maybe he could help.’

  Jason picks up his sheets of paper with a shrug. ‘I’m gonner see t’ caretaker. I bet ’e’ll sponsor me for a cooker.’

  A moment later, she sees him passing in front of the classroom window, heading in the direction of the boiler room.

  At four o’clock, Clara is waiting in her empty classroom for Oolie to be dropped off by Edna, the manageress, on her way home from Edenthorpe’s, because Marcus and Doro have gone to a meeting about the allotments. She tidies away the debris of the day and sorts the reading books by level, keeping an eye on the clock. Soon Oolie’s job will be coming to an end too, she thinks. Just as she was beginning to break
free and get a life of her own. Even the bit of financial independence – the holiday money saved in the tin, the freedom to buy sweets when Doro’s back is turned – has boosted her confidence. Other families will of course be hit much harder. Jason is still outside, she notices, shifting from one foot to the other by the gate as he waits in the rain. Why doesn’t he come inside and wait in the hall? His cotton hoody is pulled up over his head, but it’s completely soaked. Everything about him looks grey, soggy and shrunken.

  At last, Edna’s silver Corsa pulls into the car park, and Oolie clambers out of the passenger seat holding a plastic bag over her head. Clara waves from the window, pulls on her raincoat and goes out to greet her. They wave as Edna drives off.

  Then Jason sidles up. ‘Ey up, miss. Is that your spazzie sister?’

  He and Oolie exchange grins of mutual recognition.

  At that moment, a woman in a black raincoat with a red umbrella hurries up, stepping carefully around the puddles in her red high heels – yes, it’s Megan. Clara’s sure of it. Her face is older and her hair, which used to be long, is short and sleek. But her eyes are the same – wide, grey-green, watchful.

  ‘Sorry I’m late, pet,’ she says, as Jason runs up to her.

  ‘Megan?’

  Clara steps forward, smiling hesitantly, not sure how much warmth is in order, and Megan smiles back. Then Megan’s eyes fall upon Oolie and her smile vanishes. She stares. Oolie stares back.

  ‘Julie? Julie-Anna?’ she says in a low voice.

  ‘Oolie-Anna, silly,’ says Oolie.

  Megan bursts into a long quavering sob.

  ‘What’s up with ’er?’ Oolie whispers loudly.

  Megan drops her umbrella and grabs Oolie in her arms.

  ‘Gerroff!’ Oolie pulls back, splashing into a puddle, taking Megan with her.

  ‘Hey, Nan! Watch out for t’ Mighty Duck!’ Jason takes a running jump into the puddle beside them.

  Muddy water splashes everywhere.

  ‘Give over, Jason!’ cries Megan, still hanging on to Oolie.

  ‘Duck! Duck!’ Oolie wriggles herself free of Megan’s embrace, and stamps in the puddle.

  ‘Stop it, Oolie! Stop it, Jason!’ yells Clara.

  But they’ve worked themselves into a state of giggling hysteria with their stamping and splashing. Megan has pulled out a tissue from her pocket and is dabbing her eyes, which have two large black panda-circles of running mascara spreading on to her cheeks. The rain has intensified. All of them are soaked.

  ‘Megan? I’m Clara,’ says Clara to Megan. ‘Don’t you remember me?’

  ‘Course I do, love!’ She whips out another tissue and drops the packet into the puddle – her hands are shaking so much. ‘Where are you living these days?’

  ‘I’m in Sheffield now. But Mum and Dad are still in Doncaster. Hardwick Avenue. D’you remember Marcus and Doro?’

  ‘Course I do, course I do, love! How are they?’

  ‘Fine. Why don’t you come back and say hello?’

  Megan hesitates.

  Jason says, ‘Yeah, Nan, let’s go!’

  ‘Come! Come!’ cries Oolie.

  A gust of wind catches the red umbrella, and twirls it up into the sky.

  DORO: Only a broken bowl

  The allotment gardeners’ meeting turned out to be more a wake than a plan for action, and Doro, thinking about her little hardy cabbage seedlings that would now never grow into cabbages, suddenly burst into tears and had to be driven home and consoled by Marcus.

  Which is how they happen to be in bed together when the doorbell rings, at four thirty, and she suddenly remembers that Clara will be bringing Oolie home today. She jumps out of bed and scrambles into her clothes. To face Edna and Oolie in a state of half-undress is one thing – to face her older daughter’s sly and slightly patronising smirk is quite another.

  ‘Hold on, I’m just coming,’ she yells, though Clara has her own key, and has already opened the door by the time she’s racing downstairs, still buttoning up her cardie. ‘I was just having a little snooze,’ she says, catching Clara’s eye. ‘You know? A woman’s right to snooze?’

  ‘I’ve brought some visitors,’ says Clara.

  Behind Clara, in the hall, Oolie is shuffling out of her wet coat, and a woman and a boy are wiping their feet.

  ‘Hi, come in,’ says Doro, studying them curiously. Who are they? The boy looks vaguely familiar: pale skin, large grey eyes, the way he shuffles in his shoes. The woman looks familiar too. She’s smiling at Doro, enjoying her stupefaction.

  ‘Hi, Dad,’ says Clara, grinning at Marcus, who is shambling down the stairs in his socks, still zipping up his jeans. ‘Were you having a snooze too?’

  ‘Mm.’ He rubs his eyes. Then rubs them again. ‘Megan?’

  Yes, it’s Megan. Doro’s head spins with a rush of mixed feelings.

  ‘How lovely to see you,’ she says, hoping the words sound more sincere than she feels. Sometimes, the past should stay in the past: it’s been invading the present too much recently.

  ‘I bumped into Megan outside the school,’ says Clara. ‘She’s Jason’s grandmother.’

  ‘I see,’ says Doro. (Isn’t Jason the same boy who caused havoc with Oolie on Community Day?)

  ‘And Jason is Carl’s son,’ Megan says, shaking out a red umbrella. ‘Remember Carl?’

  Doro remembers the sullen little boy despatching insects under the kitchen table; and she remembers what Janey said.

  ‘He died …?’

  ‘Roadside bomb. In Helmand. It was in all the papers.’ There’s sadness and a touch of pride in Megan’s voice. ‘He wasn’t even that keen on the army. He wanted to go to university, like you lot. He loved to listen to your talk. Remember, he used to sit under the table and listen? But his school didn’t do A levels, and the college was useless. So he joined the army. Said he wanted to travel.’ Her head droops and, despite her jaunty lipstick and high heels, she suddenly looks poor and old.

  ‘’E were a war ’ero,’ says Jason.

  What a terrible shame. What a terrible waste, thinks Doro.

  ‘Come in and have some tea,’ she says.

  They follow her through into the kitchen. The remains of lunch are still on the table.

  ‘Have a seat. Sorry about the mess.’

  ‘Remember t’ muck in t’ old Coal Board offices?’ Megan grins, then catches Doro’s eye. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean no offence.’

  Doro bites her tongue. Megan was never at the forefront of the domestic brigade. Bustling with resentment, she clears the table, puts the kettle on and searches for some biscuits, but they’ve all disappeared – Oolie must have discovered her secret hiding place. All she can find are some ancient cream crackers, soft with age, which she puts in the bin.

  Jason and Oolie are sitting on the sofa, squabbling over the remote control. She can see them through the open door.

  ‘D’you like Russell Brand?’ asks Oolie.

  ‘He looks like a poof,’ says Jason, ‘wi’ long manky ’air.’

  ‘I want to shag ’im.’

  ‘Only spazzies fancy Russell Brand.’

  ‘Shut it, Jason,’ growls Megan.

  ‘Talking about long hair, we bumped into Chris Howe the other day,’ says Marcus. ‘Remember him?’

  ‘Him what was always showing off ’is little chipolata?’ Megan laughs, then falls silent, looking from Marcus to Doro to Clara.

  What’s going on? Doro feels a twinge of unease.

  ‘I saw Janey Darkins in Woolworths. She said you’re living in Elmfield.’

  ‘That slapper. Less I seen of her the better.’

  Doro is startled by her vehemence. Then she remembers. Bruno.

  ‘Do you still hear from Bruno?’

  She shrugs. ‘He went back to Italy, din’t he?’

  Doro pours the boiling water into the old brown teapot and, without looking up, remarks, ‘Janey said he’s not Oolie-Anna’s father.’ She tries to drop it casually into the conversation,
but it falls like a brick into a well of silence.

  Clara looks around with a funny smirk on her face. Megan opens her handbag, and starts to sift through its contents. Eventually, she pulls out a packet of Marlboro and a plastic lighter.

  ‘Mind if I smoke?’

  ‘No. But …’

  ‘It’s none of her business, is it?’ She draws deeply and puffs out a sigh of smoke.

  Marcus finds an ashtray and puts it in front of her on the table. Doro thinks she catches a quick exchange of glances between him and Megan.

  ‘Haven’t you got any biscuits?’ asks Clara, setting out the teacups and milk jug.

  ‘No,’ says Doro.

  She pours the tea in silence, as though to speak might disturb the herd of elephants that have gathered in the room. Megan is watching Oolie and Jason through the open door. Doro cannot read her expression.

  Clara calls through the open door. ‘Oolie, Jason, d’you want some tea?’

  They come bouncing in, nudging each other.

  ‘In’t there no biscuits?’ asks Oolie.

  ‘Somebody ate them all,’ says Doro. ‘I wonder who that could be?’

  ‘It were t’amster,’ says Oolie. ‘I seed ’im. Little bugger.’

  Doro laughs. Winding people up is something else Oolie has learned at Edenthorpe’s. ‘Oolie, what a terrible fib!’

  ‘When I ’ave me own flat, I’m going to ’ave a ’amster.’

  ‘Is she going to have her own flat?’ asks Megan.

  ‘Yes, cos Mr Clemmins says.’

  ‘Who’s Mr Clemmins?’

  ‘Mr Clements, the social worker,’ says Doro. ‘It’s still under discussion. I suppose, now you’re back –’ She stops. Her heart is beating wildly. Now Megan is back, will she snatch Oolie away? Will she take over Oolie’s life?

  ‘I’ll help,’ says Megan. ‘I mean, I’ll help keep an eye on her. In her new flat. If you don’t mind.’

  ‘Why should I mind?’ says Doro, wondering why she does mind so much.

  ‘Miss killed our school ’amster, din’t you, miss?’ says Jason.

  ‘Jason, what a porker!’ says Clara.

  ‘D’you want to see my bedroom?’

  Oolie grabs Jason’s arm, and pulls him towards the door. He grins, showing teeth like crooked grey pegs.