Children's Children

by Jan Carson

  Children’s Children

  Short Stories

  Jan Carson

  For the Ulster Hall, and all those who’ve called her home

  On the floor at the great divide

  with my shirt tucked in and my shoes untied.

  —Sufjan Stevens, ‘Casimir Pulaski Day’

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  1. Larger Ladies

  2. People in Glasshouses

  3. Still

  4. Den and Estie Do Not Remember the Good Times

  5. In Feet and Gradual Inches

  6. We’ve Got Each Other and That’s a Lot

  7. More of a Handstand Girl

  8. Contemporary Uses for a Belfast Box Room

  9. Swept

  10. Floater

  11. How They Were Sitting When Their Wings Fell Off

  12. Shopping

  13. Alternative Units

  14. Dinosaur Act

  15. Children’s Children

  Notes

  Also by Jan Carson

  Copyright

  1.

  Larger Ladies

  They were not as fat as she’d expected.

  Of the ten in Sonja’s care, only one was too big to stand. An extra-large bed had been borrowed from the bariatrics department at the Royal. Bariatrics, she’d learnt, was the type of medicine which specialised in making fat people thinner. When it arrived, the bed was almost as wide as it was long. It did not fit through the ward doors, so they were unscrewed and afterwards screwed back wonky. Now they made a noise like sliced cheese every time they opened. The special bed ate into the space between the beds on either side, so Sonja could only approach these patients sideways. Like a crab, she thought, which was a good comparison, for wasn’t she always pinching at them with needles and the device used for measuring flab?

  The other women were just a little overweight, what Sonja’s mother would have called plump: size sixteens and eighteens sheathed in pale, satin pyjamas. The damp, green glow from their monitors reflected off them so that they seemed to float on their beds like luminous squid, or jellyfish suspended in a tank. Her father, who had been more comfortable with livestock, would have called them hefty, would have seen no such romance swelling between the folds of their childbearing hips.

  But they were beautiful to Sonja in their every-day-different pyjamas: peach, lemon, lilac and baby’s-breath pink, all the colours of the ice-cream spectrum. They smelt clean while they slept, like the inside of Boots, the chemist. In the morning, Sonja went home smelling of them, sometimes talc and sometimes lavender. No one on the bus noticed or, perhaps, because this was East Belfast, they noticed and said nothing. Sonja did not mind their fat, or the way it wobbled when the machines went off. Neither did she allow herself to laugh.

  The most important thing was not to laugh, or to look at them with pity. This was easier to manage when she didn’t know their names.

  Here was one middle-aged lady sleeping in a hospital bed, and next to her, another. Who was to say they did not know each other in the outside world? Perhaps their husbands were business partners or their children attended the same private school. Perhaps they were even good friends and met once a week, at the nicer end of the Lisburn Road, for cappuccinos or manicures. The first lady might believe the second to be in Spain, holidaying, whilst the first claimed to be in Cornwall, visiting relatives. It was not beyond the realms of Northern Irish hospitality to imagine them exchanging small gifts before parting: a tin of fancy travel sweets or a tube of scented hand moisturiser. This same hospitality did not extend to truth sharing, especially those truths concerned with having, and retaining, a husband into middle age.

  Now, here they were on Sonja’s ward, two proud women in single beds shoved tight as a terraced row, two proud women who, in the outside world, would insist upon distance. The sort of women who drove two-seater sports cars and wore earplugs every time they stayed in a hotel, and whispered, guarding against the possibility of sound-bleed between rooms. Here they were now in unflattering positions: double chins doubling on the pillow, grey roots emerging along their scalp lines and shadows creeping across their upper lips like teenage boys. They were without make-up in this room, which is to say they were defenceless, and also without wigs and false nails and fake tans, without the corsets and girdles and hold-your-belly-in pants they never left home without. Which is also to say they were honest as they had not been since childhood.

  Arranged tightly together, they could hear the dry rattle of sleep breath catching in their neighbour’s nose, could hear individual teeth grinding and smell the briny stench of piss clouding in the next catheter bag over. Here, they were now, a whole herd of women more used to seeing each other on the Tatler’s society pages, sleeping and sleeping and never knowing whom they slept next to.

  Dr Turner had explained everything to Sonja. ‘They’ll sleep for a month or so, under anaesthetic. While they sleep, their beds vibrate almost constantly. It’s a very simple science. The vibrations make their muscles do the hard work so they don’t have to. They wake up thinner. It’s the equivalent of six months’ hard slog at the gym, and they won’t remember any of it.’

  ‘And does the weight stay off?’ she’d asked.

  ‘Hopefully not,’ Dr Turner replied. ‘If it doesn’t, they’re usually back here within the year.’

  It was hard not to look at the fat ladies with pity. Especially, first thing in the morning when the lights came up and there were thin lines of drool visible on their chins and pillows, like snail tracks, from all that shaking. It would be so easy to laugh at them. Many of the other nurses did, calling the ladies names which were not their real names, but funnier (Frog Face and Betty and Hairy Claire) and sometimes arranging their limbs to look like the arms and legs of disco dancers.

  One evening, Sonja arrived to take over from the day nurse and the day nurse had dressed several of the fat ladies up with bedpans for hats. She was taking pictures of them on her mobile phone; snip, snip, snip, the flash went off like a series of discrete fireworks. Even asleep, the women flinched.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Sonja had asked. She was particularly annoyed about the special-bed lady, whose head was so big that the bedpan sat oddly on the edge of her temple like the peaked hat of an American GI.

  ‘I won’t show them to anyone, only my boyfriend,’ the other girl replied, defensively.

  ‘I don’t care. You shouldn’t have done it in the first place.’

  ‘Why does it matter, Sonja? They don’t know what we’re doing to them.’

  ‘That’s exactly why it matters,’ she snapped back, and stood over the day nurse while she deleted every one of the funny pictures.

  The most important thing was not to look at the fat ladies with pity or laugh at them. Once she started laughing, Sonja knew she would not be able to stop.

  At night, when the overhead lights went off and they were curled up on a spare bed, shapeless beneath his Spiderman blanket, Sonja told Dylan stories about the fat ladies. ‘They are mermaids,’ she would say. He’d ask why they were sleeping, why they were wearing pyjamas and why they were not thin like the Little Mermaid off his DVD. He’d just turned four and there were so many questions in him.

  ‘These are wise, old mermaids,’ Sonja would reply. ‘They are not skinny like the Little Mermaid, who is really only a child. They are tired from many years of swimming in the ocean. They have come to Belfast to rest because this is a good place to be. They have swum here from Australia and China, America and Spain.’

  ‘And Poland?’ he’d ask. Sonja would nod. ‘Of course from Poland.’ The East Belfast pinch on his ‘A’s caught her in the gut every time, and made her qu
estion the wisdom of naming him Dylan. The local tongue was cruel. It scissored his name into such an ugly, stab of a word. At home she would have called him Karol after her father, but that was a girl’s name here, and Sonja wanted the child to be just like the other children, who were called Curtis and Jordan and other words which only sounded right on television.

  Every Saturday evening, she went over his hair with an electric razor. The other little boys on the estate kept their hair close, running the streets in tracksuits and fat trainers like a troupe of baby convicts. She wished to see Dylan included, but could not bear to let him out the front door. He was only four and still went to bed with a sucking blanket. Each Saturday night, the pink-white of his scalp, peeking through the stubble like a shocked marshmallow, made Sonja cry, but she did not stop cutting. The sound of the razor’s hum was stronger than her sobs, and more determined.

  She didn’t want Dylan to catch her crying. He was the kind of child who always asked.

  ‘Why are you crying again?’

  ‘Why does it never stop raining?’

  ‘Why do the policemen drive tanks?’

  ‘Why do we not have a garden?’

  ‘Where is my dad?’ This was a question he had not yet thought to ask. It was only a matter of time; most likely the questions would begin in September, when he started school. Sonja wasn’t sure what she’d say. She didn’t know the answer herself, but wished to say, ‘Don’t worry, son. I’ll get you one.’ This was what she said every time Dylan asked for something she could give him by saving or self-denial.

  The child was always asking.

  ‘Mum,’ he’d ask, when they were on their own in the quiet dark, ‘why are all the ladies in Belfast so fat?’ Sonja understood why he might think this. All the women on their street were large and leant against their front doors in slippers like individual Samsons bracing their homes against collapse. And, Mrs McMillen at the VG, where they bought their bread and milk, was as big as the unsunk Titanic. She kept her bosoms resting on the counter, partially eclipsing the Telegraph’s front page. And here he was, every other night, sleeping in a room full of lady whales. It was not the best way to bring up a child. Neither was it the worst, Sonja told herself. Occasionally she wrote this in letters to her mother, who was always asking why she did not move back to Poland.

  ‘They’re not fat, Dylan,’ she’d say. ‘Fat isn’t a kind word. They’re just a bit bigger than the ladies back home.’ Which was a silly thing to say to the child, for Belfast was his home now, and it would be years before Sonja could save enough to take him back to Lodz, even for a holiday. Her mother had only seen Dylan in photographs. Her father had died of a heart attack while he was still swimming inside her. Such a thoughtless thing to say to the boy; she hoped he hadn’t heard. Besides, there were fat people in Poland too.

  A circle of tubby grandmas had hung, like Christmas lights or bunting, around the edge of Sonja’s childhood. Interchangeable Elzbietas and Ludwikas in tie-at-the-waist aprons and head-scarves. They could be relied upon for hot food in mountains, tending the table as if it was some sort of altar and the gods were always hungry. They were fat as butter, these little women, and shaped like stacking dolls or the kind of hedgehogs who wear clothes in children’s books, walking upright on two of their four feet. They were quite happy to be fat. In Poland, fat was what you got when the blessings caught up with you.

  During her first week at the clinic, Dr Turner had taken Sonja aside and said quite firmly, ‘Never use the word “fat” in front of the patients. If you have to call them anything, call them “larger ladies”, please.’

  She’d written this in her notebook so that he could see the words ‘larger ladies’ neatly printed. She wanted the doctor to understand that English was no longer her second language.

  ‘And is it “larger gentlemen” for the male patients?’ she’d asked.

  Dr Turner had laughed then, exposing the whiteness of his teeth. They were like tiny fingernails lined along his gums. The taste of coffee came off him every time he opened his mouth, for he was the type of man who leaned too close to women when he spoke.

  ‘We don’t have “larger gentlemen”, Sonja,’ he’d said.

  ‘Do they go to a different clinic?’ she’d asked, confused.

  ‘No, they don’t have their own clinic. You’ve clearly not been in Belfast long enough to realise that we don’t have fat men here. We have fat women, and we have rich husbands who’ll pay to send them to places like this. But we don’t have men with that sort of problem in this city.’

  This was not true. Sonja knew it. There were plenty of fat men in Belfast: the kind who wore their weight evenly across their bodies, as if the extra flesh had been applied with a spatula, and the kind whose fat was more unbalanced, balling about their middle like it might on a heavily pregnant lady. Every other man she passed was carrying the equivalent of a honeydew melon.

  Sonja thought of Dylan’s father then, and the way his belly hung loose from the waist, slapping against her like a wet pillow every time they made love. When she’d sat behind him in a taxi, going to the shops or the pub, she’d been able to see three thick folds in the back of his neck. You could store things in there, she’d thought, like pencils or loose change. She’d never mentioned this to Dylan’s father. He hadn’t considered himself fat, for he’d once been a bodybuilder.

  Later, when she’d said to him, ‘I want to keep this baby,’ and he’d said, ‘Well, I don’t,’ and ordered her a taxi to, ‘wherever the hell you people go’, Sonja could easily have called him a, ‘fat bastard’. This would have been true and would have poked away at him like when an eyelash is in your eye and it will not blink itself out. She hadn’t said anything though, because Dylan’s father was bigger than her and sometimes had fists. There had been the baby to think about too. The idea of Dylan was already uncurling inside her. The next day, she’d sent him a letter which said, ‘You are a selfish man,’ and, ‘I did not ever love you even when I said I did.’ She’d signed it, ‘Yours sincerely, Sonja.’ This was the wrong way to end such a letter, but she’d been copying a template off the Internet and couldn’t think how else to finish it.

  Sonja had not heard from Dylan’s father again. Neither had she tried to contact him, even when the baby was born and looked just like him about the eyes. Once she’d seen him, out the window of a bus, on the way to work. Dylan had been three at the time, old enough to understand the difference between fathers and men you pass in the street without noticing. She might have lifted him onto her knee then, and said, ‘Do you see that man in the Liverpool top, outside the pub, smoking? That’s your dad, so it is.’ But she’d felt all of a sudden jealous for her child and turned his attention towards the opposite side of the road, where there was a crane and a small dog pissing against a bus shelter. She did not want there to be other people in his world.

  ‘Just you and me, kiddo,’ Sonja would say each night, as she tucked him in to the hospital bed, clinking his safety rails into position.

  ‘Just me and you, Mum,’ he’d reply, ‘and all the mermaid ladies.’

  The fat ladies buzzed in approval. Their beds were on a timer and went off at precisely eight each night, vibrating steadily through a three-hour cycle. Three hours on the treatment. Three hours off. It was necessary to keep this up for at least a month if a patient wished to leave the clinic thinner. None of the ladies ever left early, nor did they complain about the bruises. Asleep, they were incapable of registering discomfort. However, the thin lines running from one side of their monitor screens to the other sometimes rose or fell sharply as if words had failed them and electricity was their new language.

  After a week on the ward, Sonja was able to read the peaks and troughs of their dreams. The process of translation was not unlike Morse code or, perhaps, geometry. She traced their dreams out for Dylan, leaving greased streaks on the glass where her finger had made the shape of a mountain range.

  ‘This is what a fear looks like when you
are dreaming,’ she would say, pointing out the lowest dips.

  ‘And what are the high bits, Mum?’ he’d ask.

  ‘Those are the shapes a good dream makes inside your head, son.’

  Sometimes, before Dylan fell asleep, they made lists of those good things they wished to dream about. Sonja insisted upon specifics: tastes, funny incidents, memories of day trips they’d taken on the bus to Newcastle and Derry-stroke-Londonderry (which was Dylan’s favourite place to say, on account of its length). Sonja was not surprised to discover all her good things were resting against his, like books balancing upright on a shelf. She could not remember how she’d been happy here before him.

  When the green lines were lowest, the fat ladies cried out in their sleep or thrashed around their beds like fish, straining against the leather restraints. This was how the bruises began. This was the noise of young sheep, or very old women collected together in a nursing home. Dylan could not stand it.

  ‘Make it stop, Mum,’ he’d say. ‘It’s too sad in here.’ Then he’d make a tunnel, pulling the Spiderman blanket over his head and keening softly into the mattress. Sonja would place her hand on the hill of his back, feeling each sob run up her arm and down her neck like a pulse of pure, electric grief.

  Later, when Dylan was asleep, she’d make her confession to one of the fat ladies, a different one every night. Sonja was not a Catholic. She wondered if perhaps she should have been, for she felt neat inside, and younger, each time she spat the truth out and left it curdling in a stranger’s ear.

  ‘I am a bad mother,’ she’d whisper, leaning across the safety rails so the stale-paper smell of their hair caught at the back of her throat. ‘I bring my son to work because there’s no one else to look after him. I am sad that he is here in this room with all of you. It’s not the right way to bring up a child. But I am not sad that there is no one else. I could find him a father if I tried. I am still young and I have not lost my figure. All the time, men look at me in shops and on the bus. I could easily find a father for Dylan, but I am selfish. I don’t want to share my boy with anyone else.’