Goose

by Dawn O'Porter

  It’s hard to know what to say. I essentially do all of those things, and in the past have even done them to Flo. I don’t think I am a bad person either, but I could easily fall into the category of the people she has just described.

  ‘My church friends don’t do things like that either. They are good people too. So many people lack basic morals. It’s depressing.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ I murmur, trying to sound like I get it.

  To be honest, this is all getting a bit intense. And I don’t want Flo thinking about her church friends when she is with me. If I am honest, I don’t want her thinking about her church friends at all. In the nicest possible way I need to move her on from this philosophical moment she is having. Right now, my grandma is snoring on an armchair next to us, and there is a human skeleton hanging from a coat stand in my living room. Forget the flippant morals of the human race, we have a skeleton to dress, and I want to have fun.

  ‘I’ve had an idea’ I say next, running out of the room. Hopefully this will take Flo’s mind off God.

  I come back with a huge plastic bag in my arms. Nana is awake.

  ‘What a lovely man,’ she says, smiling at me as I walk in. I shoot a look at Flo. She nods, confirming that Nana is talking about Ricky.

  ‘What’s in the bag?’ asks Flo.

  Now, I have a tendency to think beyond the ‘bleedin’ obvious’ (as Pop used to say) when people are in need of a spot of light comical relief, but I can honestly say this is one of the best ever strokes of comedy genius that I have ever had. I open the plastic bag and pull out Aunty Jo’s wedding dress. Despite her being generally quite stylish, this eighties frock looks like someone threw up a Mr Whippy. Layers of billowing crushed ivory silk, silly bows and tacky embroidery. How she ever thought this was a good idea I will never know.

  ‘Ahhh, a wedding,’ says Nana, looking thrilled. ‘Who is getting married?’

  ‘Ricky,’ says Flo. ‘Ricky and Renée.’

  I feed Ricky’s feet through the dress and pull it up over his shoulders. ‘Quick, go and get the camera from the drawer in the kitchen,’ I tell Flo. ‘We must document this special day properly.’

  She comes back and snaps away. I have pulled Nana’s armchair round so it is next to me and put the flowery head piece on her that was also in the plastic bag. I have linked Ricky’s arm through mine and I flutter my eyelids as if blissfully in love. I think Nana thinks it’s genuinely a wedding, she is so happy and smiley.

  ‘OK, look at your new husband,’ instructs Flo. I turn to Ricky and gaze lovingly into his eye sockets. ‘Do you, Renée, take Ricky to be your lawful wedded husband?’

  ‘I do,’ I say, wistfully.

  ‘Do you, Ricky, take Renée to be your lawful wedded wife?’

  I say ‘I do’ like a really bad ventriloquist and tug on the neck of the dress so Ricky nods.

  ‘I now pronounce you hu—’ But before she can finish her pronouncement the distinctive noise of a sharp gasp stops her going any further.

  I turn to see Aunty Jo, her arms crossed angrily over her chest, glaring at me and Ricky and Flo.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing, Renée?’

  I have never seen her look so mad. I immediately feel like a total fool.

  The atmosphere in the room turns really cold. Aunty Jo is standing in the doorway. And it looks like she might cry.

  ‘I got married in that,’ she says, quietly, glossing over the fact that a skeleton is wearing the dress. ‘You think it’s funny that my marriage didn’t work out?’

  This is awful. Aunty Jo never gets like this.

  ‘We are not making fun of you,’ I say awkwardly. ‘I … I just thought it would be funny to dress Ricky up … ’

  But no amount of explanation can make what is going on seem like normal behaviour. Aunty Jo sighs heavily, shakes her head at me and then walks away. Flo and I hear her bedroom door close. I feel terrible.

  Flo gives me an ‘Oh shit’ look.

  ‘I’ll get the dress off him and wait in your room,’ she says, starting to undress Ricky.

  Meanwhile, Nana is still sitting there, staring at Ricky, as though everything is completely normal.

  ‘Come on, Nana,’ I say, ‘let’s get you to bed.’

  ‘Did she change her mind?’ she asks.

  ‘Did who change her mind, Nana?’

  ‘Your wife?’

  ‘Something like that, Nana,’ I tell her.

  I guide her to her room, see her into bed and give her a kiss goodnight. ‘Sweet dreams, Nana. I love you,’ I say as I shut the door. Only a few years ago she did the same to me.

  ‘Aunty Jo,’ I say, tapping on her door and opening it gently. ‘Can I come in?’

  She is lying face down on the bed, a pillow over her head. It’s the kind of position I would lie in, and for second I imagine her as a teenager. Mum’s little sister.

  ‘I’m really sorry I upset you. I didn’t mean to.’ I say, sitting next to her.

  She pulls away the pillow and rolls over. She hasn’t been crying, but she looks exhausted and stressed. She sighs again, but looks less mad.

  ‘I know you didn’t, Renée. I just saw my wedding dress and you both laughing at it and seeing it played out in front of me reminded me of how much of a fool I feel for getting married. I should have thrown my dress away, but I just couldn’t.’

  ‘You’re not a fool. You only got divorced, loads of people get divorced. Mum and Dad got divorced, quite a few people in my class have divorced parents. It’s normal.’

  She puts her hands on her face and groans.

  ‘But I never wanted to get divorced, Renée. In front of all my family and friends I stood up in that stupid bloody dress and told the man I loved that I would spend the rest of my life with him. He said the same, but I knew, I knew he didn’t mean it like I did, but I still went ahead with it.’

  ‘Do you really think he didn’t love you?’

  ‘He loved me, of course, but not the way he should have. I think he thought I would do, but that he had always hoped for something better. He used to point out all of my faults, which put me in my shell. He thought he was being helpful, telling me how to better myself all the time, but all that meant is that I got smaller and smaller until I was completely invisible to him and he wanted to be with somebody else.’

  ‘He sounds really mean. I didn’t realise Uncle Andrew was like that,’ I say, shocked and quite upset that I was ever nice to him.

  ‘It’s subtle. He was perfectly nice to me on a daily basis, but he obviously wanted me to be a different person so found it hard to hide that,’ she says, sitting up. ‘People don’t have to think each other is perfect in a relationship, but if you want to change someone you have to be gentle, filter it through in other ways, not just constant criticism; offer advice and encourage, not slam them for being who they are. I lost my confidence and he let me drown, never once trying to save me.’ She drops her head a little. ‘I’d have divorced me too. And now look at me. Forty-four, single and loveless. I will almost definitely never have a child of my own because I married the wrong man. That dress is a symbol of all of that. It’s hard to see any humour in it, you know?’

  I feel so sad. I never thought Aunty Jo had struggled like this – she has always been so private about her marriage. But of course it broke down because it was awful – why else would it?

  ‘Sorry,’ she says, and blows her nose with a tissue that’s in her hand. ‘I shouldn’t tell you these things. You have dealt with enough, and you don’t need to hear about sad old spinsters with tragic love lives.’

  I put my arm around her.

  ‘To be fair, Aunty Jo,’ I tell her, ‘you’re not the one who just married a dead transvestite.’

  That makes her laugh.

  ‘How was your date?’ I ask, hoping it went well.

  She rolls her eyes.

  ‘Turns out the only thing we have in common is the way we like our lamb chops cooked. By the end of dinner I wanted to burn him
to a crisp, to be honest. Ah well, I’m sure Mr Right is out there somewhere. Thanks, darling. You go to bed, I’ll be all right.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Sure!’

  Just as I get to my bedroom door, Aunty Jo calls out, ‘Renée?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘That skeleton won’t stay in the lounge, will it?’

  I turn and smile. ‘Night, Aunty Jo. Sleep tight.’

  4

  Too Much

  Flo

  Lying back on my bed I listen to the lyrics of Gordon’s music. The chorus of one song is:

  Christ, you are my smile

  Christ, you are my sight

  Christ, you are my every thought

  Christ, I love your might.

  How can Christ be your smile? I try not to overthink it and attempt to lose myself in the music. I want to have learned all of the words in time for the gig tonight. I have an hour before I have to leave. That would be a pretty cool thing to do. Cool in a going-to-a-God-themed-rock-concert kind of way.

  I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Gordon since Thursday. I know he isn’t the sexiest guy ever, but there is something about him I really fancy. I think it’s just how well he knows himself, how self-assured he seems. How comfortable he is with his faith. Comfortable enough to stand on stage in front of a room full of people and sing songs about it. I can’t imagine doing anything like that. I haven’t even told my own mother I am religious, let alone an entire ticket-paying audience. I want to have as much conviction – I want to feel what he feels and believe the way that he does. I close my eyes.

  ‘Dear God,’ I say quietly, ‘thank you for the last few weeks. I’ve really enjoyed getting to know you. I’m not sure I am at the stage of head banging to rock songs about you, but I am not really the kind of person who would head bang to rock songs anyway, so please don’t be offended. I will give it a go though, I promise. I just wanted to tell you that I have been feeling better about Dad. I still miss him every day of course, but I think I feel less guilty, or at least more understanding about the fact there was nothing I could have done to stop his heart attack. And I can breathe through those moments where I miss him so much I could cry. I just focus on him and smile and somehow the tears just don’t come. That is when I feel you the most, when I find a way to stop the tears. It’s like you dry them up for me. I have created a voice for you in my head – I think you would like it. It’s quite deep and slow, and soothing. It wouldn’t work on anyone else – a human might come across as a bit creepy – but for you, it works. I think you might have sent me a message the other night at Tudor Falls? I thought making me sit through the sex with Miss Trunks and Mr Carter was a really odd way to do it, but I did get your message. You showed me that I am a good person, didn’t you? You reminded me how other people do bad things, how they lie, how they cheat, and that my guilt and my issues with myself really are not based on anything I have actually done. That is right, isn’t it? That is the lesson you wanted me to learn? So thank you, God. I … ’

  ‘Who on earth are you talking to?’ asks Mum. She is inside my room. I can feel the heat coming off her. What do I do? Do I tell her, or do I pretend I am learning something for school? She looks exasperated with me, but then she often is. This is who I am now. I must be strong.

  ‘I was talking to God.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘God. I’ve been going to church for weeks.’

  She looks confused.

  ‘God?’

  ‘Yes, God. Do you believe in God, Mum?’

  ‘No, I do not. You know I don’t go to church.’

  ‘Well, I do. Did you want anything?’

  I can’t quite gauge her reaction. It’s impossible to tell whether she’s angry, or surprised, or possibly even frightened. She just keeps staring at me lying on the bed, her eyes scanning me up and down. Then it’s almost as if she remembers what she is here for.

  ‘I need you to babysit Abi tonight. I have been asked out.’

  ‘By a man?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes, by a man, Flo. I wouldn’t have thought I will be late.’

  I very rarely say no to my mother. Partly because I rarely need to, because I hardly have the world’s most kicking social life, but mostly because even though our conversations might make us sound like two people who are virtual strangers to each other, we actually get on better than ever now, and I want it to stay that way. My life is now a juggling act of trying to keep her on a level so she doesn’t have a nervous breakdown – something I am aware she could have at any given moment if she had the opportunity – and I worry that saying no to her will put us back to where we were even two years ago. She hated me, and I hated her. These days we can just about stomach each other. It’s a vast improvement. But tonight I am not available, and she is going to have to be OK with that.

  ‘Sorry, Mum, I can’t. I have a date too.’

  ‘You have a what?’ She looks flabbergasted, which doesn’t do much for my ego. ‘Is Renée going?’

  ‘No, Mum. I love Renée, but I wouldn’t take her on a date with me.’

  Mum is obviously having trouble processing almost everything I have laid on her since she walked into my room.

  ‘What is this music?’ she asks.

  ‘It’s The Trinity. My boyfriend is the lead singer.’

  She stands, staring at me, like I’m an alien. I close my eyes again. I feel so stupid for calling Gordon my boyfriend. I don’t know where that came from. Maybe God made me say it. I keep my eyes shut and hold my breath, hoping that my face doesn’t turn bright pink.

  Mum continues to stare at me for a bit, and then she gives a small shrug.

  ‘Well, I guess I could ask my date to come here,’ she says at last, before she leaves the room.

  I am shocked at two things. One is the fact that my mother is being so reasonable, when she is not a reasonable woman. And the other is that I just called Gordon my boyfriend, which he isn’t. Yet. Did Mum and I just have some weird mother–daughter chat about boys by accident? I suppose I shouldn’t question any of it. Just go with it.

  Now, what on earth am I going to wear?

  I struggle with outfits at the best of times, usually opting for the same thing of black trousers and either a black T-shirt with sparkly bits on the shoulders and my denim jacket, or I borrow something of Renée’s. She has got some really nice stuff now that her aunty Jo takes her shopping. Mum, on the other hand, still thinks that as long as my naked body is hidden I don’t need anything new. Even though we are not broke, not after Dad’s life insurance came through, and she now works full-time on reception at an insurance firm, she still can’t bring herself to give me money. My job helps – I get thirty-two quid a week from Smellies, and much more when I work the holidays, so I am doing OK after Easter. But since shelling out to fix my car, buying new shoes and paying Mum back for the magic kit she agreed to buy for me last year – as long as I paid back every penny – I am not left with much.

  I put on my black trousers and the black T-shirt with sparkly shoulders. It’s fine. The Trinity gig will hardly be the fashion party of the year, will it?

  As I arrive at St James, a large church just above town that is now a concert hall, there are a lot of people outside standing in front of a big poster on the wall – with Gordon’s face, a crucifix and the band name and logo (another crucifix with a hand around it) and the words The Trinity, TONIGHT!

  People are smoking. There doesn’t seem to be anyone over about twenty-five, and at a glance it looks like any other group of young people hanging around outside a gig. Kerry runs over to me.

  ‘Flo!’ she shouts to get my attention. ‘Here, have some of this before we go in. They are checking bags.’

  She passes me a big bottle of cider and I have a sip. I didn’t realise she drank. On Thursdays we just have tea and whatever high-sugar snacks Sandra brings, and we all munch away happily as we talk through whatever part of the Bible we are discussing that week. But no one has ever m
entioned booze. I think I just presumed they didn’t drink. Kerry definitely seems a bit pissed tonight, though. It doesn’t take much to make me drunk, and I want to have a clear head tonight, so I just have a sip and hand her back the bottle.

  ‘I am so glad you came,’ she says, hugging me affectionately and kissing my cheek. It’s the kind of lingering hug that feels like more than just a hello, and more like a needy thank you. ‘I wanted to invite you myself, but wasn’t sure if you were ready for a load of rocking Christians all in the same room. It can be a bit full on.’

  ‘I’m ready. I’m looking forward to it. Gordon said he would get me in for free.’

  ‘He did? Wow, he is usually quite tight with the tickets.’ Kerry doesn’t look too impressed. ‘Shall we go in?’

  As Gordon promised, my name is on the door, but Kerry’s isn’t. I feel bad about that, but I guess I have to get used to that, if he is going to be my boyfriend. He can’t get everyone free entry, can he? I feel cool for the first time in my life.

  The room is huge, very churchy in shape but not churchy in how it’s decorated. There is a big balcony with lots of seats and there are already lots of people up there, but down in the main bit in front of the stage people are just standing and waiting for the band to come on.

  I had no idea there were so many young people on Guernsey who are into God. It’s like another world. I recognise some of them from other years in school – a couple of girls from Tudor Falls, for instance – and some from just being out and about. I should probably say hello or something, but I am happy sticking with Kerry, and I am keeping my eyes open for Gordon. I wonder if he’ll come and see me before he goes on stage?

  ‘I learned all the words to Gordon’s songs,’ I tell Kerry. ‘Well, most of them.’