Leanne was fiddling with Susan’s hair. She was saying, ‘If you just leave the back down then it’ll look like it always does.’
‘Well, do a French plait or something, then.’
Margaret interjected, ‘Simon doesn’t like it when you do it that way’
Leanne smiled. ‘Last time I did it for you he said it looked like you had a randy armadillo clinging to your scalp.’
Margaret tutted. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. That’s strange, she thought, I must be nervous. She lay the dress across Susan’s bed and then checked her watch. ‘Fifteen minutes before the car comes. I’ve not even powdered yet.’ She put her hand up to the front of her fringe to check that she’d taken her curler out.
Leanne said, ‘Don’t worry, I’m doing a pleat.’
Susan grimaced at her reflection. ‘Make sure it doesn’t stick out. I hate it when they stick out. Makes you look like one side of your head is bigger than the other.’
Inside Susan, waging a battle with her irritability, was a little voice saying: It’s going to be fine. It’s going to be all right. She said, ‘Leanne, switch the radio on. They always do dedications and a song for people getting married on Radio One at this time on a Saturday. Gary Davies or someone.’
‘Let me pin this in first.’
‘I’ll miss it.’
She yelled, ‘Mum! Can you come back in here? Can you come and switch the radio on?’
Scott wandered in. ‘You want the radio on?’
Susan nodded. Leanne almost dropped the pieces of hair she was holding. Scott sat on Susan’s bed and fiddled with the small radio on her bedside table.
‘Just switch it on. Don’t mess with the tuning.’
He switched it on. A voice said ‘… especially Mandy and John in St Albans from the gang down at the rowing club. This is for all of you.’ The dedication was followed by the opening few strains of ‘Endless Love.’
‘I don’t believe it. I bloody missed it. I waited twenty-four years for this moment and I missed it.’
Leanne pushed the final hairclip into the pleat and then stood back. ‘Rubbish. You hardly ever listen to the radio any more.’
Susan kicked at the leg on her dressing table. ‘I bet there was a request for me and I missed it.’
‘I don’t think anyone sent a request in. Simon didn’t mention it either.’
‘Maybe everyone in the office or down the pub …’
Leanne laughed. ‘You never even mentioned it before now.’
Scott switched the radio off. Very tactful for an eight year old, Leanne thought. He then said, ‘Only gits listen to Radio One.’
‘Go and look up “git” in the dictionary.’
‘I did earlier. It means …’ He considered the word he was about to use. ‘A comptemptible person.’
‘Contemptible.’ She thought about this for a minute. ‘I bet it means more than that.’
Leanne was doing an evening course in Old English. She was reading ‘The Nun’s Tale.’ Lately she’d become fascinated by the origins of words. She was considering a course in linguistics, but wasn’t absolutely sure whether linguistics had anything to do with the history of language.
‘Give me the bloody dress.’ Susan raised her voice so that Leanne should realize that this was her wedding day. As a bride she had authority.
Leanne picked up the dress. Susan watched her. She took hold of the dress, bending over to grasp it, holding it in her arms like a dancing partner. When Susan snatched the dress from her, it was like she was stealing Leanne’s partner in a Ladies, Excuse-me. She yanked the plastic off.
Leanne joined Scott who was standing next to Susan’s small bookcase looking for a dictionary. She said, ‘You must’ve had a dictionary for school, Susan.’ Then she saw one and pulled it out. ‘Git,’ she said. ‘Look it up again.’
Scott was grouchy but did as he was told.
‘G-I-T,’ she said.
Susan was surrounded by a broken blancmange of cream taffeta. She was fiddling with the seed pearl buttons.
‘A hundred sodding seed pearl buttons,’ she said furiously. ‘Traditional my arse.’
Leanne said, ‘Do you want a hand with those?’ As she said this she noticed a strange stain, like a water mark, on the back of the dress. ‘Scott?’ She spoke casually.
He said, ‘I haven’t found it yet.’
‘Why don’t you go downstairs and let Grandad help you look? Aunty Susan’s got to get dressed now.’
Scott sighed, exasperated, but closed the book and left the room. Susan was still grappling with the buttons.
Leanne inspected the stain more closely. It was seven or eight inches in diameter. It did look like a water stain. This was bad news, because water, as a consequence, probably couldn’t be used to remove it. If I tell Susan, she thought, she’ll go mad. But if I don’t tell her …
‘What the hell is that?’
Too late. Susan had seen it.
‘I think it’s a water stain or something.’
‘Call Mum.’
Susan dropped the dress and sat down on the bed, thoroughly disgusted.
Leanne was accustomed to the rapidity with which Susan responded to things. For Susan, everything happened immediately—it had to—or not at all. If she had been a flower—her dad regularly said this—she’d be a passion flower. She’d bloom for a single day and then die. Passion flowers are beautiful, Leanne thought, but when it comes down to it, I’d rather be a lilac. The little flowers start off a dark, rich purple, fade into a lovely mauve, then turn into a bright white. Three flowers in one.
Leanne called Margaret. Margaret came in after several seconds, only half-way into her suit. She wore the skirt, a searing shrimp pink, on the knee, a nice length, good fabric.
‘What?’
‘The dress.’
Susan pointed. Leanne had picked the dress up. She indicated towards the water mark.
‘I don’t believe it. It must’ve been like that when they sent it.’
‘I’m going to sue them.’
‘You only tried it on two days ago. I didn’t notice a stain then.’
‘Phone them and tell them I’m going to sue.’
Leanne said, ‘Is there any way of getting out a stain like this?’ Margaret didn’t really have a clue. She didn’t know much about stains on the whole. What sort of a mother does that make me? she thought. Susan was glaring at her as though it was all her fault. She was the oldest. The oldest person was always responsible. Susan said quietly, ‘I’m not going. Ring Simon. Tell him it’s off.’
Leanne stared at Susan. Her nose and chin were red and her eyes were doleful. This is like a game of Mouse-Trap, she decided. Scott had the game at home; a brightly coloured plastic contraption with a large silver ball. She couldn’t remember how you played it, what the rules were, but she did know for certain that once the silver ball had started to roll, the course of events was pretty much determined. She said, ‘You can’t hardly notice it, really. There’s so much material. Once your veil’s on it’ll stretch down way below …’
‘Phone them and tell them I’m going to sue.’
Margaret said, ‘You could probably pin a couple of folds together if the veil didn’t cover it.’
Leanne watched Susan’s face. This could go either way, she thought. Anger or self-pity. She hoped it would be the latter. The corners of Susan’s mouth began to turn down. Her chin trembled.
‘It’s a botch-up. It ruins everything.’
Secretly, Susan was almost pleased. The hair, the radio … these things hadn’t been a sufficient cause for dejection, but the dress …well!
Margaret stopped herself from uttering platitudes. She wanted to say, ‘It doesn’t matter,’ but, of course, it did matter.
Leanne said, ‘Simon asked you to marry him that day you vomited in his car after Alton Towers. Remember? It won’t make any difference to him.’
Scott rushed in. He was now wearing a button-hole. Margaret said brig
htly, ‘The flowers have arrived. That’s something.’
Scott shouted over the top of her words, ‘Git. A bastard. In the sense, to beget. Hence, a bastard, fool.’
Damn, Leanne thought, that wasn’t very successful.
Susan matched his yells with her own. ‘Scott, bugger off!’ Every time I get some attention, she thought, that little brat ruins it.
Scott stuck out his bottom lip, looked from Susan to his mother and then back again. Margaret snatched hold of his hand and led him out of the room. She’s my daughter, she thought. It’s her wedding day.
Leanne said, ‘Susan, just because you’re the bride, doesn’t mean you can get away with being rude to everybody’
‘Well, what the hell does it mean then?’
Leanne scowled. ‘It means that you can get away with throwing a tantrum, but that if you’re a decent person you’ll decide to behave well, even though you know that you don’t absolutely have to.’
Susan said, ‘Leanne, you’re full of shit.’
Leanne held up the dress. ‘Put this on.’
‘No.’
‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘It’s ruined.’
‘It won’t even notice once the veil’s on.’
Leanne watched Susan’s face. Will she, won’t she, will she, won’t she?
Susan stood up and held out her arms. Leanne helped her pull the dress on. Dad shouted upstairs, ‘Nearly time now. The flowers are ready. The cars are here.’
Susan twirled in front of the mirror. The dress looked fine … But the stain? Once the veil was on … The veil was long. For a moment she understood exactly what Leanne had meant about the bride choosing to be nice. That, too, was a kind of power.
Margaret came in, fully dressed now. ‘See?’ she said. ‘I told you it’d look just lovely.’
Susan saw herself as a scale. In her mind things were delicately balanced. She was outside herself, looking on. Things are very carefully balanced, she decided. A small weight of irritation, frustration, fury, was outweighed, only just, by a supreme equanimity. This is as it should be, she thought. I’m a bride. I’m going to church. This whole day is about … love.
Margaret handed Susan her bouquet. Next she picked up the veil and helped Leanne to pin it on to Susan’s head. They adjusted its pale folds. This is that special moment, Margaret thought, where a mother gets all emotional.
Susan burped, then put her hand over her mouth and said, ‘I could do with a Rennie or something. My gut’s all acid.’
Leanne said, ‘I’ll get you one after I’ve found my shoes and my bag. I won’t be long.’
Scott was sitting on the bottom stair looking petulant. Leanne said, ‘Don’t get any fluff on your suit.’
He said, ‘I don’t like Aunty Susan.’
‘She’s uptight, that’s all. She didn’t mean to be rude.’
‘What did she mean, then?’
‘It’s complicated.’
Scott wasn’t satisfied with her answer. He said, ‘So sometimes it’s all right to be rude?’
‘Sometimes, but only if you’ve got a good enough reason. We’ll talk about this later, OK?’
Leanne looked around for her bag and located it on the hall table. Her shoes were neatly placed on the front doormat. She slipped her feet into them and then made her way through to the kitchen, past Dad, the flowers, the chauffeur, who was having a cup of tea. She found some indigestion tablets. Scott was trailing around behind her. She said, ‘It’s nearly time to go.’
‘Is Aunty Susan allowed to be rude because it’s her wedding day?’
‘No. Yes. She’s only rude because she’s upset. That’s all.’
She swept past him and up the stairs. Scott watched her. In his mind he was working out a simple equation. It went: Wedding=Upset=Nasty=Fine. He smiled to himself. Right.
Susan processed down the stairs. Leanne and Margaret darted around behind her like a couple of frantic swifts. Susan felt almost too grand for this house, like a misplaced princess. Her mind had been quietened by meditating solely on the letter I. I’m looking forward now, she thought. I am the present. I am the future.
The chauffeur led the way to the main car. A Rolls. White. Margaret followed, then Leanne, next to Susan, who had agreed, just this once, to hold up her own train. Grandad locked the front door.
Scott stood in the path behind Susan as they waited to arrange her comfortably in the car.
‘Aunty Susan,’ he said, his small voice chiming out as clearly and purely as a perfect crystal bell.
‘What?’ She barely turned.
He said, ‘Aunty Susan, it looks like you’ve wee-weed all down the back of your dress.’
Susan’s good intentions flew out of her mouth like a big, fat, red, angry robin.
Back to Front
NICK WAS BACK TO front, but only on the inside. When he was born, the midwife held him up by his tubby, bloody legs, cleared out his mouth and his nasal passages while the doctor, holding his stethoscope, aimed it like it was a dart and Nick’s heart the bulls-eye, listened, blinking, holding his own breath, for the infant’s heartbeat.
But he heard nothing. Just the faintest scuddering; a faraway, dreamy sound, something so distant from the white, harsh delivery chamber, the long, tiled hospital corridors, the clatter of trolleys, the banging of doors; something so soft and fragile, so remote, that it sounded like the peripheral scuffle and bicker of two wagtails arguing over a berry in a holly bush.
He tried not to panic. Nick’s mother, propped up on four pillows, whipped and battered, noticed in an instant.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing’s wrong.’
‘Tell me!’
‘If you’ll just quieten down for a moment …’
The young doctor held his breath until his eyes began to water. Still that rattling noise, and very indistinct. But the child was as fresh and ripe as a little cherry, a boy, breaming and gurgling and thinking about squealing.
‘I’m just going to take him off with me for a minute,’ the doctor muttered, grabbing Nick’s legs and righting him. The midwife caught the doctor’s eye. Nick’s mother caught the midwife catching the doctor’s eye. As Nick was carried from the delivery room, she struggled to count the number of his fingers and the number of his toes. Ten of each. Before he was gone.
And so it was. Nick was set apart. He was different. Outwardly, not a sign, but inside, everything back to front.
‘Everything,’ the doctor told the midwife, five minutes later, full of wonder, ‘the opposite way around from how it should be. I couldn’t hear his heart at first but it’s beating well enough, except it’s on the right-hand side of his body instead of on the left. And all his other organs too. Topsy-turvy. There’s a name for it.’ But he didn’t know the name because Nick was his first.
Nick’s mother, Grace, told all the other mothers how her Nick was back to front. ‘I called him Nick,’ she said, ‘because he came along in just the Nick of time.’
The other mothers cackled. Although, in truth, there was nothing medically dangerous about Nick’s condition, and time, or the lack of it, was of no consequence whatsoever.
Nevertheless, every day she counted his fingers and his toes just to make sure. Ten. Ten. She was a pernickety mother. As Nick grew older, if he complained about her coddling she’d tell him how he was taken from her on the day he was born, set aside, examined, and all the while she hadn’t known what was wrong, had only imagined. And there’s nothing worse than imagining. Not a thing.
So Nick was set aside and he was special, but only on the inside, and that kind of difference, the invisible kind, can be very hard to live with.
At school, his teachers found him to be a small, sharp peak-slippery and unassailable. He was so convinced of his own superiority. And the other children had no interest in anatomy, or where exactly the heart was located. It would be a long time until that particular juncture—third form biology, maybe, but certainly not yet.
&
nbsp; It was hard for Nick to understand his own apparent insignificance. At first he’d emphasized his difference and this had made the other children hate him. So he wouldn’t fit. Didn’t want to either. And then they teased, insulted and derided him. So then he couldn’t fit, even if he’d cared to. But finally they began to ignore him. He became a blank. A nil. A nothing.
When Nick was aged fifteen, Grace remarried. His stepfather, Thomas Siswele, was Nigerian by birth. Grace thought Thomas was different, not ordinary like she and Nick were but, oh so special. He taught Grace how to cook groundnut stew with plantain.
And so it started. Each day Thomas would bring home the local paper and read out titbits to Grace as she prepared their dinner. He’d read out news about fêtes and fairs and infestations, an award-winning garden on the eighth storey of a tower-block, a fight, a rape, arson, theft.
You’d almost believe, Nick thought, standing in the doorway, unheeded, that he’d gone and written that paper himself, with all the fuss she makes over it.
One Friday afternoon, Nick turned himself in at the police station for shoplifting.
‘What did you steal?’ they asked. He told them.
‘Where did you put the stolen goods?’
‘In my bedroom.’
They searched Nick’s house and found nothing. So he had to tell them how he’d stolen a car.
‘What’s the registration? The car type? The colour?’
He told them, details he’d seen in the paper. But then they found the missing car in a lock-up in Walthamstow and covered in someone else’s prints.
Nick told them how he’d set fire to a factory in High Barnet. ‘Why? What fuel did you use? Whereabouts and how much?’
‘Petrol. Everywhere.’
But the specialists told the police that the fire had started because of an electrical fault. There were no traces of petrol.
After a while the police got sick of Nick. His timewasting. Nick was excited by this. He kept on wasting their time hoping it would lead somewhere, but instead of charging him for it they decided to ignore him. They told him he was the boy who cried wolf. And you know what happened to the boy who cried wolf, they said, don’t you? Nick prayed it would happen.
Three Button Trick and Other Stories Page 17
