Chinaski
Page 26
“I know.” Spit flew out of Peter’s mouth. “I know she was. She nearly killed me with that door, remember?”
“I’m pretty sure Carl opened the door, actually. I mean, it was an accident, but it was Carl who did it. I just got blamed,” said Lydia.
Chris rubbed his hands together and cackled, “Oh! It’s all coming out now!” Peter scowled at him. “Still,” said Chris, “I’m sorry to hear about Carl’s dad dying like that.”
“What?” Peter stared at him.
“Beaten to death, or whatever happened. What she just said.” It took a minute for everyone to realise that Chris was talking about Dom.
“He wasn’t his dad!” said Peter.
“Well, who was he then?”
Peter wrinkled his brow. “An uncle? Wasn’t he married to Miriam?”
“Miriam was his mum,” said Lydia.
“Dom’s mum? No, too young.”
“No, Miriam was Carl’s mum.”
“Oh God, it was all so complex, that family. Who can remember all that?” sighed Chris.
“I can,” Lydia said quietly.
There was a pause. James cleared his throat and opened the champagne. All four of them made the noises that you’re supposed to make when a bottle of champagne is opened, and Chris raised a toast, “To old friends and glorified acquaintances!”
After a few more drinks, Lydia, Chris and Peter huddled together, almost comfortable now.
“It’s been a while since we did this, eh?” said Peter.
“It’s been 20 years,” said Lydia.
Chris screamed in mock pain. “Twenty years! No-one should be as old as me!”
“Do you still see John?” Lydia asked Peter.
“No. No. I think he runs a pub in Thailand. Someone told me.”
“I have to say, Lydia, or Catherine, or whatever you’re called, you look pretty fucking good. I mean it. Very – svelte. Very. I wouldn’t have recognised you.” Chris winked at her.
“Well. Thanks. I mean, we’ve all changed. I suppose. But, thanks. And you look...good.”
“I do, don’t I? And I don’t do a fucking stroke of exercise. Listen, want to ask, what’s the deal with you two? James? What’s the story there?”
Lydia smiled at Chris tiredly. “Whatever story you want to make, Chris.”
“No, really. He’s not the type I’d have imagined you yoked to. No offence, James. But, Lydia always seemed to go for – a different sort. Hair. Tragic backstory. All that.”
“We’re not married,” said James. “Why would you think we’re married?”
“She’s wearing a ring. Isn’t she? Lydia, let me look – are you wearing a ring?” Lydia drew circles on the tabletop, keeping her hands far away from Chris’. But yes. Yes, there was a silver ring on the fourth finger of her left hand.
“I’m going to have to ask you to leave this, Chris,” James was grimly smiling, but Lydia suddenly looked up, looked straight at Chris’ face.
“James is the kindest friend I’ve ever had. He’s – helped me. Things were very difficult for a while. Very difficult. And he played a great part in putting me back together. But this isn’t a ring from him. I’m surprised you, or Peter, haven’t recognised it.” She put her hand close to his face, and both he and Peter peered at the ring.
“It’s Carl’s! I remember it now!” cried Peter. “But he wore it around his neck.”
Lydia spoke with difficulty but great dignity, “After the funeral, after a few days, Angie gave it to me. You remember Angie? His half sister? She somehow tracked me down. She said –” and here her voice did break a little, “– she said that it would be my unbroken link. She said it would always remind me of how much I was loved. So now I have both – I have the one that Carl gave me – I wear that around my neck – and I have this.”
Chris arched an eyebrow, opened his mouth to say something caustic, but met James’ eyes. James shook his head slowly and Chris shut his mouth and let Lydia carry on.
“So, after a while, I gave up on music, management, all that. I was too thin skinned. And, music – it’s a young person’s game, isn’t it? I had to reassess. I got stronger, learned what was right for me. James helped me start the business and it’s going well. Like I said, who doesn’t like a party?
“Hear fucking hear,” said Peter, solemnly.
* * *
An hour and three bottles later, Chris, Peter and Lydia were all dancing to Chinaski. Lydia sang along with tears running down her face. Chris, all elbows and knees, bumped into the table, the bar, anyone passing. Peter air drummed, his eyes shut, his mouth open. The bar staff looked at them with amused contempt.
“Haven’t heard this in years – it’s good! It’s good!” shouted Chris, while Peter nodded and drummed, Lydia smiled through the tears and sang along with what she thought she was hearing, and they all kept on dancing, not noticing that the music had changed some time ago.
26
August 12th 1993
The flat is cold. The flat is too cold. He’s opened up the windows and propped the doors open. Says he needs fresh air. Yesterday or today he stood for ever such a long time in the lounge, watching the TV with the sound turned down. He doesn’t want it up. He watches all those music shows, all that rubbish. And the news, he watches that too, but everything else he turns the sound down. I ask him, I think I ask him, why he doesn’t turn it up, but he won’t tell me. Leave him be I think, leave him alone if he wants to be like that. But I can’t leave him alone. Love the boy. Come out into the garden I say, come and feed the cats. It’s a lovely day. But he says, it’s raining. Look. And I do look, but he’s wrong, it isn’t raining. But I don’t say that. I let him close the curtains. It’s cold now, he says. He’s shut all the windows and all the doors. He’s taken the phone somewhere, but I don’t mind that. What’s he done with the sunshine though? What’s he done with that?
At night we eat off trays in front of the telly. Just like when you were little, I say. Just like before, when you were small. You’d come here and we’d play – you remember – in that fort your grandad built – out of – what was it? – boxes. And tin foil. Remember that. But he says there was no fort. He says what grandad. He says these things to pain me, I know. But I don’t say so, because that would make him angry. Upset. And I love the boy. Love the boy.
He sleeps in the room and I sleep on my chair. I like company of an evening, I like the telly. We eat off our knees and laugh, laugh at the games they play. Do you remember grandad and the games we played? I ask him and he does, he does, and we laugh. I like the company. I tell him that. You stay as long as you like, I say. As long as you like. You’re my darling I say. And I stroke his hair and he calms down. Like a boy. Like a little boy.
What should I do? He’s crying. He asks me, what should I do? And I say, as the good Lord dictates. But he doesn’t believe that, doesn’t understand that. I feel comfort and try to share it. But he doesn’t see that. And he’s angry. And he shouts. And I feel fear. He says tell me what to do, and I put my hands out to him. I say do what you must. And then he calms down. I’m right. I’m always right. I must be right because he’s calmed down. And he says thank you. Just like I taught him. Remember your please and thank yous.
I say what are you doing here, lying down on a nice day like today. I say you should be out flying a kite on a nice sunny day, not a wisp of wind, not a cloud in the sky. You should be out kite flying with your friends, climbing trees. Kissing the girls. You should be out. But he just stares at me from the bed. All sprawled out, all long and lovely. Looking at me, still. I say don’t give me your evils, I say you need to perk up. Lovely day, out there. Play with your friends. But he looks at me and says nothing. Nothing. All that mess on the bed, he’s been writing his odd notes. I clear them up. Rip them up. It’s still my house, I say. You can’t leave your rubbish anywhere you want to, I say. I pray for him all night, never stopped praying for him. I love the boy. Always have.
Acknowledgements
Siân Hislop
Jeremy Willett
Charlotte Mann
Lynda Kelly
Anne Naisbitt
Joanna Bernacka
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Table of Contents
CHINASKI
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
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