I hope it’s a girl, I said – boys just grow up to be bastards.
Thanks a lot, he said.
Well, I’m just getting used to us living here and now we have to move.
That’s the real world, Looby. Work dictates where you live. You can’t just live somewhere because you like it.
I’m just a bit peeved, I said. I have no power in these things and it’s no one’s fault, it’s just the way it is.
They say you know your house the moment you walk in. I was lucky – in the end I only had to see one. Ivan came home with handfuls for me to look at. He viewed them during the week and was often disappointed. One Friday, he called and told me to get the train up straight away. I’ve found our house, Looby, he said, sounding so excited. It’s south-facing, five minutes’ walk from the shops. You’ll love the garden. It’s perfect.
In the West End?
No, Broughty Ferry, but you’ll love it. Five minutes from the beach.
But it’s full of pensioners.
There are young people too, he said, and arty shops springing up. Please, you have to see this house. It’s owned by an artist.
It was described as a cottage but was a small hundred-year-old stone bungalow with a slate roof. The owner was moving to Spain and she wanted a quick sale.
There was a blue velvet cinema seat in the hall.
My favourite room was the separate toilet, panelled in turquoise stained wood – it made me think of New Mexico, though Ivan thought it was gaudy. There was a huge kitchen and dining area with French doors onto the garden, a gorgeous bedroom, a study and a smallish living room with varnished floorboards. The bathroom had handpainted tiles.
The garden was untamed, tangled with sweet peas and flowers I didn’t know. I love it, I said to the owner. I’ve been very happy here, she said.
She was old but she had lovely skin.
Afterwards, we drove to the beach and yabbered like children about the pros and cons.
D’you think the living room’s too small? said Ivan.
We can make it cosy. And the kitchen’s huge. That makes up for it.
Only one bedroom, said Ivan.
The study can easily take the sofa bed, I said.
She’s leaving the garden furniture. Her late husband made it.
You have to make an offer! I said. You have to! Or someone else’ll snap it up.
We went to see it one more time and arranged for a survey. I went back to Glasgow.
I felt sick waiting for him to phone. By Friday, he had made an offer and over the weekend the woman accepted.
I’d had the job of showing Ivan’s flat to prospective buyers as he was away all week. At first it was exhausting making sure the toilet was sparkling and the cushions plumped, rehearsing what to say, but after a string of viewers I let them walk through the flat themselves and only talked to them if they asked questions. In the sixth week, the flat was bought by a lecturer in film and television. I vaguely recognised him and it turned out we’d been in the same English class in 1982.
At the end of August, we moved. I was packing a final box of glasses, wrapping them in newspaper, putting them in a box, when I heard on the radio that a Norwegian had been beheaded by Kashmiri separatists. I felt sick and couldn’t stop thinking about it. I didn’t mention it to Ivan, he got mad when I dwelled on these things. He took the box of glasses down to the car, oblivious to what was in my head. I unplugged the radio, I wanted to leave it – it was old and splashed with paint – but it would be handy for the new house.
We took a final electricity reading and left.
Are you sad? I said, as we drove away, looking back one last time.
Kind of.
But you never really lived in that flat.
I still feel a bit odd leaving.
A new chapter, I said. I hope it’s a good one.
It will be, he said. You won’t be able to put the book down.
It was still light when we arrived.
Should you not carry me over the threshold? I said.
D’you want me to?
No, people’ll think we’re crazy. The curtains’ll be twitching.
Welcome to your new home, he said, as he opened the door. In you go.
Welcome to your new home too, I said.
His furniture had already been brought up by the removal people. It was strange seeing it here.
It feels funny, doesn’t it? I said.
Do you still love it?
I still love it, I said, following him from room to room, my fingertips trailing his.
The artist had left the cinema seat in the study. Cool! said Ivan.
It’s not cool, I said. It’s ugly. It’s not staying.
You’ve got no taste, he said.
We unloaded the car slowly, Ivan taking most of it.
I made some tea, boiling the water in a pan because I couldn’t find the kettle.
Ivan wanted his in the study. I took it through to him. It’s black, I’m afraid, there’s no milk.
As long as it’s not homeopathic, he said, slumped in the blue velvet seat.
During the night he woke me shouting in his sleep: Why are there circles of water round the house?!
When I told him the next day, he couldn’t remember. You must be anxious, I said.
I don’t feel anxious, it’s all gone so smoothly, he said. Buying a cottage and selling a flat in two months. Pretty jammy.
I thought it would have been more traumatic, I said.
I’m not complaining, said Ivan. We deserve some good luck, don’t you think?
Our first evening, we sat in the garden and had fish suppers. You could smell the sea.
It’s bliss eating outside, isn’t it?
Ivan nodded.
D’you see how silvery those flowers are? I said.
What are they? he asked.
No idea, but blue and white flowers look silver at dusk. Rita told me.
We’ll need to learn about gardening, said Ivan, before things get out of control.
Things are already out of control, I said. We’ll need to trim those coppery bushes at the front.
That can be your job.
A cat from next door appeared, smelling the fish.
Scat! said Ivan.
You’re welcome here anytime you want, wee cat, I said. Just ignore him.
We’ll need to get the cat flap filled in, said Ivan. A cat flap’s a bit pointless with no cat.
We’ll need it for visiting cats, I said. You’ll just need to take antihistamines.
It looks like a madman’s calendar, said Ivan, looking at my asterisks and arrows for September’s deliveries and tradesmen. He’d taken a week off to work on the house. We were living on pasta and tuna fish. It was like being students again.
We painted the living room white to make it seem bigger. It had been peach and needed three coats. Ivan rolled the paint on with ease. I painted as much as I could, but afterwards I felt pummelled and arthritic, I could hardly move my hands. I decided it was better if I did the preparatory work and the cleaning of brushes, but I couldn’t stop touching up parts of the wall that still looked a bit patchy. You’re addicted to dabbing, said Ivan.
We got bright pink cushions.
Ivan’s dad bought us a beautiful dining table from John Lewis. It’s too nice to use, I said. I’m scared to touch it.
Don’t be silly, said his dad. It’s for using.
I was glad for him that we were nearby, it gave him somewhere else to visit. He looked so thin these days, his shoulders were like a coat hanger.
Nab and Rita came up to help. The water pressure in the bathroom was a bit high and Nab said we had Violent taps’. Rita did lots in the garden. She said all it needed was a good cutting back and told me the blue and white flowers were lobelia.
By winter, the house felt completely ours, as if we’d always lived there, though council tax bills for the previous owner were still coming through the door like confetti.
33
Pearl
PEARL IS EXQUISITE with brown skin and green eyes. Her feet are like triangles of rubber, I could spend all day stroking them. I dreamt I dropped her against the fireplace. Her feet were singed and she was screaming. I can’t tell anyone in case they’re scared to let me hold her.
It’s strange having a baby in the house, she rules the roost. Every moment of the day is governed by what she wants or needs. Christmas is out the window. All everyone wants is their turn of her.
Ivan looks gorgeous with a baby on his lap.
At first, Rita thought Sean and Amber were too young to have a child (they are both twenty-eight) but now she’s in love with Pearl and can’t stop buying baby clothes.
I know facts about babies now: they are all born with blue eyes, and they grow at approximately 0.5 mm a day in the first year. I notice babies more too, they never really registered before. Women with prams are quite often rude, they expect you to open doors for them and they don’t say thank you.
Sean and Amber come up to Dundee for New Year. They think our house is lovely. Amber is too exhausted to stay up for the bells. Pearl squeaks and squawks all night, they take turns at getting up.
More than ever, I know I could never do it.
In spring, we went to Arran with Rez and his girlfriend. We hadn’t been away since we’d moved house, apart from Balloch at Christmas. The guy on the ferry was camp with a honey-coloured wig, you could tell he felt important with his white shirt and epaulettes, even though his duties didn’t extend beyond announcing that the bar was adjacent to the gift shop.
The owner of the hotel met us off the ferry in a minibus. He was wild-eyed and aristocratic with a hat with a peacock feather.
The next day while the others were climbing Goat Fell, I walked along the beach. I saw seals in the distance, their heads pointing through the freezing purple and grey water. They reminded me of Nab. I made a circle of stones on the beach and stood inside and made a wish. On the way back, I passed a dead rabbit embedded in the side of the road.
I lay down for an hour. I was meeting everyone in the hotel bar later.
They were rosy with exercise and well-being. A couple of Australians had joined them during the climb. One asked why I hadn’t climbed too, and just I was about to explain, Ivan intervened: Because she has a fatiguing illness, he said, putting his arm round me. She can’t do tiring stuff.
I wish you could have seen the seals, I said – they were so cheeky – and the stones were such gorgeous colours.
What did you wish for? he asked.
I’m not telling you, I said, it’s a secret.
The next day it poured. Everyone was bored and listless but I was quite happy, it meant Ivan would be with me all day. Rez’s girlfriend bought a miniature Highland cow embroidery set to pass the time, but she didn’t read the instructions and her cross stitches were too tight. She threw it away in disgust.
I woke with period pains like swords. They’d been getting heavier over the last few months, I dreaded them now, huge clots slipping out of me. I think your body starts to punish you if you’re over thirty and not yet pregnant. I got up and raked through the medicine cabinet for my prescription painkillers. I took double the dose and curled up on the couch ‘til they’d worked. I didn’t want to wake Ivan with my groaning. He’d come to bed late after a leaving do at work.
I don’t mind housework, it’s my equivalent of going to the gym, though I hate dishes and ironing, and emptying the coffee pot – the grounds going everywhere, falling behind the bin.
I like cleaning the bathroom: I love the gleaming taps and the shiny floor and the smell of bleach, though I hate when you’re cleaning the sink and the same hair keeps turning up, no matter how often you’ve cleaned it off. I hate hair on soap too, and I hate the towels falling off the rail when you’ve just arranged them neatly. (It’s a bit strong calling them cunts, says Ivan.)
Cleaning the toilet is my favourite task (it’s positively aerobic!). Last week, I accidentally melted the toilet brush, a turquoise one I’d bought to match the decor. I poured boiling water on it to get rid of the flecks of shit, but the brush had melted and the shit had stayed. I was trying to clean it, I explained to Ivan later – it was disgusting. It’s a toilet brush, he replied, it’s supposed to be disgusting.
When I’m hoovering, I find his disposable contacts at the side of the bed, crisped up and dehydrated. I keep meaning to hand-wash his good sweater for him. Jana’s gay flatmate gave her a tip: you roll the soaking garment up in a towel and twist it to wring out the excess water.
It works, but it’s tiring on my arms.
In January 1996, I started my first paid job since the Swan Hotel: one afternoon a week for an organisation that helped people with dementia. Ivan knew the son of the woman who’d set up the charity. She was impressed by my volunteering history and twelve years of ME. You’ll be able to fully empathise, she said. And you’ve got your counselling credential. She’d given me a hefty manual to take home and study.
On my first day, a woman called and said her husband couldn’t stop eating cherry cake and got violent if he couldn’t have any. He had Pick’s Disease, they often have a craving for sweet things.
When my first payslip arrived, Ivan said I should frame it.
You better be good to me, I said, this’ll be keeping us in toilet roll.
Mostly, I listen and refer carers onto other services. Sometimes people just phone and weep. The office is a ten minute bus journey into town. I start at one so set the alarm for eleven. If he isn’t working late, Ivan picks me up, though he’s often working late.
Brian came to visit, he’d been asking for ages. Rita drove him up.
He ran up to the door and hugged me. You’re like a big python, I said. You’re squeezing the life out of me.
I’ve brought you After Eights, he said. It’s a luxury box.
What’s that clinking in your bag – have you brought a carry-out with you?!
It’s aftershave, said Rita. It’s his latest thing. He’s brought two bottles.
I’d made mushroom soup.
Brian licked the back of his spoon after every mouthful. After dinner, Rita had a cigarette in the garden. She hardly smoked in front of me anymore, it caused too many fights. Your mum’ll be freezing out there, said Ivan.
I feel bad, I said, but even if she hangs out the window we’ll still get the smell.
I went out to the car with her when she was leaving. Thanks so much for bringing Brian through.
Don’t let him exhaust you, she said.
I won’t.
Your house is lovely. It really seems to be working out with you and Ivan.
It is, I said, hugging her goodbye.
The next day, Ivan took Brian into town, he was reeking of aftershave. They looked at videos and CDs. Brian said he had the time of his life.
We got a takeaway for dinner. Brian said he wanted a chinky. I explained that it was horrible to say chinky, unacceptable. He said he was sorry, that he was just showing off. Afterwards, we watched a video and made ourselves sick with After Eights. Brian sat in the cinema chair. I love it when you think there are no After Eights left, but then you find one slotted into the corner, I said to Ivan.
On Sunday, after cajoling Brian into not going to Mass, we went for a drive along the coast. We skimmed stones on the water, our hands were freezing. Brian bought a postcard with a lighthouse for my granny and grandad. On the way back, a motorcyclist overtook us, he must’ve be doing a hundred. Hell be killed at the next bend, said Ivan.
On Monday – after Brian had eaten a mountain of French toast – Ivan drove him back to Glasgow. Rita’s meeting you there, I told him. She’ll take you home to Balloch.
I’m getting handed over like a parcel, said Brian.
It’s been lovely to see you, I said.
You know what the next time’ll be, don’t you?
Your fortieth.
That’s right, he said. The big ‘four O’!
When they’d left, I stripped the sofa bed. There were stains on the sheets. It was too sad to think about.
By the time Ivan got back, it was late. I was in the bath. I’d run it twice, the first time I’d left the cold running and forgotten – I’d had to drain most of it away. I was glad Ivan hadn’t seen the waste.
He came in and sat on the side of the bath.
Thanks for using your holiday to take Brian back, I said. You’re an angel.
No problem. It was nice to have him.
Was my mum there on time?
It worked out fine.
He was funny when he said he felt like a parcel, he’s so insightful sometimes.
I stopped in and saw Rez, said Ivan.
How is he?
Fine. He’s going to propose to his girlfriend.
Is he?!
Yup. Says she’s the one.
I’m not crazy about her, I said.
Me neither, but Rez probably sees a different side.
I think she’s a cold fish. Are you coming in?
Nah, save the water though. I feel like sloshing around on my own. It’s too tangled when we’re both in.
Spoilsport.
You must be exhausted.
I am, I said. Brian’s lovely, but he’s hard work. You must be tired too.
Not really. It was an easy weekend. By the way, I found these on the passenger seat, he said, holding out hair clips. If you ever get lost, I’ll find you by your trail of kirbies.
I’m always losing them, I said.
I’m always finding them, said Ivan. They’re everywhere.
Have you seen the paper? They’ve printed my letter! I squealed down the phone.
The State of Me Page 30
