True Things About Me

by Deborah Kay Davies

  On the front step the grey cat sat upright staring at me. Shoo! Get lost! I shouted, but it didn’t move. Its eyes were the colour of pale green grapes. The cat and the sky over the houses were exactly the same colour. Maybe the cat was the evening, come to bless me, help me rest, I thought. No, that couldn’t be right; I had always been afraid of cats. So I pushed it with my foot, not hard, just firmly, but it still sat on, gazing. I slammed the door and locked it. Then I bent down and peeped through the letter box. The cat was walking away up the garden path, its tail twitching. As I crouched, watching, I felt bereft; I’d denied a harmless animal shelter. Didn’t that mean I was a really cold person? Now I wished I’d asked it in. Given the poor creature some milk maybe. It would have been lovely to listen to it purring, coiled round my legs on the sofa.

  I lay down and covered myself with a blanket that was usually draped over the back of the sofa for decoration. I turned on the TV and switched channels. It was incredible, on every programme they seemed to be talking about me. Some aspect of my stupid life was being examined. The pictures they showed didn’t look like me of course, but I knew what was going on. I reckoned they must be desperate for material. Serious, bearded experts were giving their opinions. Mostly they made good points. I felt myself drifting off under the warm blanket. It felt as if the grape-eyed cat was vibrating against me.

  Then someone was banging on the lounge window. I thought it might be him. Come to say he loved me. I stood up. Whoever it was had their hands pressed to the window, trying to peer in. But it was dark in the lounge and I was invisible. I crept to the front door and listened. Someone was standing at the door. I could see them through the mottled glass, talking to the person who was making all the noise. I realised it was my parents, and I let them in.

  What’s happened to you? my mum asked, but she didn’t really seem to want an answer. They were a bit agitated. My dad said that Gran was ill. That they’d come to take me with them to the hospital. I picked up my coat. I think you should go and spruce yourself up a bit first, dear, my mum said. Change your clothes, sort your hair out. We don’t want you scaring the horses.

  As I trailed up the stairs I could hear my mum asking where the kettle was. I wanted to rush back down and shout at them to leave my kettle alone. To get out of my house, and take their stupid string bags, fucking bifocals and dreary matching fleeces with them. I felt beyond all that shit now. Soon I was going to leave them far behind. No real rush, darling, my mum shouted up to me. I’m sure Gran will be all right, don’t you worry. She usually is. I’ll bring you a cup of tea, and maybe a little sandwich? She was opening and closing cupboards as she called to me. Or a biccy? Bang went a cupboard door. I know, I’ll make you a nice boiled egg and soldiers. You always like that. I dropped onto the top stair and started to cry quietly. I loved the sounds coming up from the kitchen; cups rattling, drawers opening, my kettle’s whistle. Yes please, Mummy, I called to her.

  My timing is dead on

  I SAT IN the back of the car and listened to my parents. They were deciding on the best route to the hospital. I had a fierce headache, and their soft conversation was like a light rain falling on the hot roof of my head. I held onto the door handle and made sure my seat belt was on. The fabric of the seat was coarse and warm. I ran my hands over as much as I could reach. I wanted to feel really there. Really with my parents in their neat car with the tin of icing-sugar-covered fruit sweets in its special place on the dashboard. I wanted to laugh out loud at the idea of that tin of sweets.

  What’s going on there? my mum asked. Just checking your car out, I said, and settled back, trying to think about my grandmother dying. Maybe she’d already fallen off her perch. It was funny. There was a time when I would have been hysterical at the idea of her death. Now it felt like an item of news I’d heard on the TV. Something that was happening to someone I didn’t know in a foreign country I would never go to. I nearly got out of the car when we stopped at some traffic lights; I had so much to sort out.

  It felt wrong though, not to care at all. I tried to whip some feelings up but the inside of my chest was as hollow as an empty rubbish bin; totally, absolutely dried up, with my poor, tiny heart lying at the bottom like a crushed coke can. The more I thought about it the more desolate the scene became. No, not a bin, more like a vast sheer-sided sinkhole. Halfway down I could make out seagulls twirling. Their demented screams spiralled on the uprushing air. I started to sob. My dad looked at me in the rear-view mirror. Poor sausage, he said, I know you loved your gran, but she’s more than ready to go. It’s time. My mother craned her head back at me and nodded, scrunching up her eyes. Oh, so that’s all right then, I said. And you two psychic ones would know. I suppose you decide when to pull the plug as well? There now, he said, you’re very upset, it’s understandable. I saw them glance at each other.

  As soon as we got inside the hospital I started to feel sick. The fag-smoking, hard faces of the nurses, who’d never fooled me; the sick people in their hundreds of rooms, breathing and oozing stuff onto their sheets; the warm air heavy with dead skin cells. I thought about the lines of trolleys full of sickening luke-warm food trundling up and down. And the sluices clogged with all kinds of gross lumps. I had to force myself to follow my parents down the endless corridors to Gran’s ward.

  I counted six beds, all occupied. Everybody looked dead as far as I could tell. One bed had the curtains pulled round. I could see a group of people through a gap sitting silently. It took ages for Mum and Dad to get chairs, and then we gathered round Gran. Her body barely made a shape under the blankets. I asked my mum if we were at the right bed. Don’t be so silly, she said, holding Gran’s hand. I wasn’t sure. It didn’t look like her. This one’s nose was far too big. And her mouth looked unfamiliar. She was wearing Gran’s rings though.

  There was a small, elegant-looking man sitting in a winged chair opposite us. He had thick, startlingly white hair, brushed back into a mane. I couldn’t help looking at him. One leg was crossed over the other and his arms were lightly resting in his lap. He smiled and nodded at me. Stop looking around, my mum hissed. Honestly, we’re here for Gran. I tried to pay attention, but nothing was happening. I wasn’t sure whether to breathe through my mouth or my nose. Neither felt safe.

  There was a flurry from the group behind the flowery curtain. And a strange, guttural, obscene sound, accompanied by sobs and murmuring. Someone rang a bell, and two nurses came running. They looked as if they’d been eating chocolates, I thought. Don’t look, mum said. The curtains heaved and bulged as if someone were having a fight inside. Then there was a huge, impossibly long burp, then silence. The nurses reappeared, and tidied their rucked-up uniforms. He’s gone, they said to the ward in general. The elegant old bloke nodded and smiled as they went out. It’s a mad house in here, I said. The whole situation is doing my head in. I’ve got to get some fresh air. Stay right where you are, my dad said. He pointed his finger at me. Not everything is about you. I didn’t say a word, but I felt that was a touch harsh.

  Hours went by. We drank tea. Gran was moving her lips and plucking at the bedclothes. My mum tried to listen. I asked what she was saying. Just the usual chicken sounds, I’m afraid, Mum said. She always loved chooks of course. I remember her telling me. She stroked Gran’s cheek, nodding and smiling exaggeratedly at her like people do to babies. Kept them as a child, didn’t you, Mum? she bellowed. My dad put his arm round her, and they both peered at Gran. Poor old duck, he said. Which I thought could have confused her, when she was so into chickens.

  The old man still sat in his chair, looking noble. I couldn’t help watching him. He didn’t seem at all ill. He began to get restless, moving around in his chair, and laughing quietly to himself. He saw me looking, and gestured for me to come over. At first I thought I would ignore him, but he looked so sweet and smiley I stood up and walked across the ward.

  When I got quite close he grabbed my arm and pulled me down to his eye level, uncrossed his legs and pointed to his crotch.
Big brown stains were growing. Something liquid but heavier than pee plopped onto the lino near my sandal. The stench was stupefying. Almost visible. Billowing over me. My eyes watered, and I began to gag. I tried to call to Mum and Dad but they were both leaning in over Gran. The old man laughed as I wrenched my arm free and ran into the corridor. I threw up my boiled egg and soldiers as I dashed to the toilets.

  I stayed in there as long as I could, splashing cold water over my face and neck, then washing and rewashing my hands. I took my sandals off and dry retched as I dunked my feet in the sink; the old man’s shit was splattered on my big toe. I crunched and swallowed some mints I found in my bag. I had a long sit-down on the loo. I really needed to wee but somehow I couldn’t. It was burning and painful down there. I knew I needed to sit in a cool bath and attend to myself properly. I wondered if I was bleeding. My boobs were tender. Eventually I walked back to the ward. Someone had cleared up the sick in the corridor. The curtains were drawn round Gran’s bed. I went inside. Where have you been? my father asked. She’s dead.

  I pour cold water on events

  I GOT COMPASSIONATE leave, so that was a bonus. Though the idea of the bloke with the pig socks and pasties being compassionate made me want to scream with mirth. The funeral was OK. Lots of people I didn’t recognise milling around at my parents’ house. Plenty of alcohol and sausage rolls; what’s not to like? But I couldn’t concentrate on the buffet. I caught glimpses of Alison and Tom, which was nice, though somehow I couldn’t get near them. I began to feel people were deliberately keeping us apart.

  The best thing, I found, was to walk slowly in circles amongst the crowd with a full glass and a heaped plate. That way no one bothered you much. Lots of people still hugged and kissed me, even so. The usual suspects; old male friends my parents probably kept under the stairs, and wheeled out for special occasions grabbed the chance for a grope. I couldn’t blame them really. They told me my gran had really loved me. That she’d been proud of me. One grotesque individual, as he cradled my buttock in his gnarly old hand, actually told me I was Gran’s ray of sunshine. I couldn’t help laughing. Mostly I didn’t know how to arrange my face, so I just pretended to cry. That sent them scarpering.

  Finally I bumped into Alison, and we sat on a bench in the rose arbour, perfectly bosky and cave-like. The roses had grown up and over the top. Pale pink blooms drooped down on us. The smell was intoxicating. It was cool and secret. Your parents’ garden is so fab, Alison said, and linked her arm through mine. Pity one can’t say the same about their ghoulish friends, I said. Some of them are nice, actually, she said. I told her that inside these funny old hedges it was as if nothing bad could ever happen. Even as I said it I knew it wasn’t true. Well, yes, but unfortunately, not true, Alison said. It ought to be true, but it’s not. That’s one of the things I love about Alison. The way she says things I’m thinking. There hadn’t been very much of that recently. Alison, I said, you are so wise and lovely. I know, she said. Can we be friends again now? I asked her. We always are, you nit, she said. Then she asked me how I was. I’m not your mum, she said. It’s just that I worry about you. Nag, nag, nag, I said.

  I was horribly restless. Who are you looking for? Alison asked. Only you keep craning your head round. Really? I said. That was surprising and scary; why was I doing that? What else was I doing that I didn’t know about? I looked at Alison with her sweet funeral dress, and her shiny hair in its usual ponytail. There was so much to say, but also nothing at all. Anyway, given it was my grandmother’s funeral, I couldn’t really tell her anything. It didn’t seem the right time. I started playing the game we’d played since for ever. I knew she wouldn’t be able to resist, and sure enough soon we were sniggering, quoting snippets of cheesy songs to each other. Perhaps we should stop giggling, Alison said. Behave, young miss. This is a funeral.

  We decided to walk round the garden. I wanted to check out the runner bean wigwams. We agreed that vegetables were nice and grounding. I remembered the last time I’d visited. I could almost hear the ice tinkling in my mum’s gin and tonic. I had fallen asleep on the bench near the bronze fennel. There was that moment with the mint, when I’d felt as if I had been pulled back from something. There you go again, Alison said, pointing at me. You’re doing it now. I don’t know what you mean, honestly I don’t, I said. You seem weird to me, she said. All strung up. Who are you expecting? Mr Nobody maybe, I said. Alison decided to go and find Tom. She said she would see how my parents were.

  Some people started to leave. I went up to my old bedroom and lay down on the bed. In the top drawer of the side table were my diaries. I pulled them out and began to read. I seemed to have been meticulous in recording all the school dinners I’d ever eaten. There were lists of birthday and Christmas presents, lists of the books I’d read, and the interminable walks I’d gone on. So boring and sort-of sweet. And lots of pages in code. I knew what they were about. Not sweet at all. Very boring though, and a bit pathetic, as those things usually are. I put the diaries back. Had I always been stupid? I fell asleep.

  When I woke it was evening. I could still hear murmuring outside. I tottered down to the garden where some more people I assumed were close friends of my parents were sitting round a table. Alison and Tom were there. A parasol blossomed, its frilly edges fluttering. It all looked quite jolly. They had obviously been drinking for some time. The soft sunlight glowed in each pink glass. Having fun? I asked my mum. Someone found me a chair and I joined them. They were talking about summer holidays. Everyone was chipping in with lovely memories of happy times. Even the most boring remark sent them all into fits. I watched a tiny, dishevelled bird pecking at a crisp. Its wiry claws made a whispery sound on the metal table. I could feel tears blooming in my eyes; the little bird was so happy there with his meal. I was glad the bird didn’t care about us. It put things in proportion. So I chilled out and drifted, drinking cold wine. I began to feel blissful.

  There was a commotion near the back gate. Someone was shouting. It sounded like my father, which was unusual. Tom and two other men from the table got up, and went towards the noise. Mum strained to see what was going on as I poured myself another drink, then she looked at me, gesturing with her glass. Are you going to tell me who that might be? she asked me. Then she turned to Alison, and let out a loud gulping sound. We don’t know what to do, she said into Alison’s shoulder, her daddy and I are out of our depth. I think she was crying. Alison put one arm round her and gave me a look. Slop went her wine over the pin-tucked bodice of Mum’s M& S blouse. Is all this something to do with you? she asked me. Maybe, I said, and gulped some wine, turning towards the struggling men. He broke through the little cartoony cluster, and ran headlong across the lawn, falling at my feet. One of his flip-flops flew off. My dad walked slowly towards us, trailing a jumpy, spouting, garden hose.

  Apart from the snaking pipe and the hiss of the water there was silence in the garden. Everything else was motionless. I looked at Alison but somehow I couldn’t hold her gaze. What’s going on? she said quietly, reaching across the table to gently shake my arm. I couldn’t answer because there he was, sprawled on the grass looking perfectly at home. I’ve come to get you, he said, grinning. His T-shirt was wet. I shrugged Alison off, and turned to face him. He sprang up and executed a perfect handstand. I couldn’t help clapping.

  Surely my dad didn’t spray you, I said, as he lightly turned himself upright again. I could hardly speak I was so limp with laughter. My father coiled up the hose and shouted, Yes, I bloody well did, then held the nozzle up like a gun. I felt sorry for my poor old pa, with his forehead red and sweaty, his sparse hair tufty. At the same time it was all hilarious and exhilarating. Why did you do that, Dad? I asked. I did it because this person is not welcome here, he said, more quietly this time, and pointed the hose again. And now I want you to tell him to leave. It would be for the best, I think.

  My mother made a wheezy, sobbing sound. She was still at it. Soaking Alison’s best dress. Chill out, Mum, I said
. Why can’t you ever be happy for me? It’s not as if anyone’s died. She jerked upright in her chair. How could you? she said, in an odd, strangled voice. You poor, selfish, stupid girl. But I was already touching his beautiful damp hair, connecting with him again. It seemed to me the garden was suddenly filled with birds and butterflies, petals and flashing rainbows. And rooted to the ground all these stiff strangers dressed in black. God, what a crowd of absolute zeroes, I thought. How did you know where I was? I asked him. Sssh, he whispered, holding his finger up to his lips, I have my ways. Are you coming?

  I provide bed and breakfast

  I COULDN’T SLEEP. But that was nothing new. It seemed to me I hadn’t slept since the late nineties. So I lay on my side, hugging the little nobbly pillow I’d brought back from my parents’ house, and watched the dawn slowly bleach the curtains. I was paralysed by this creepy new mood, some new feeling that at its top end felt like utter exhaustion. For hours my brain had refused to move out of a circle of linked ideas I didn’t want to think about. I saw a series of pictures clicking around like scenes from a shaky, antique film someone had projected on a grainy wall.

  I could hear him breathing. One beautiful leg was hooked over me, both arms were flung above his head. I inched round and studied his armpits; the tiny coils of golden hair were almost like shells. I sniffed him. Then my scalp stretched, my stomach contracted, and I finally understood all the pictures I’d refused to look at in the night: I was terrified. That was it. The thought of him waking up made me pant like a cornered dog. I must have looked unhinged, craning round, dribbling, my hair electrified.

  I don’t know; maybe I fainted. When I opened my eyes again the curtains were a solid block of light. He was leaning over me. I need a slash, he said. Then a nice shag. When he got back into bed his penis felt wet against my leg. He asked me if I liked sex in the morning. It was a question I couldn’t answer. One, because I didn’t know, and two, because I was too afraid to speak. What’s the matter, baby? he asked, and kissed me gently on the lips. I began to feel better. I hoped he hadn’t noticed my eyes bulging out of my skull like a mad witch’s.