by Ruth Hogan
It’s always a living hell for the parents who are left behind. Billy Band was a lively boy with a mischievous streak. Or a ‘right little sod’ according to his dad, but the apple of his eye nonetheless. Billy’s gravestone has a football carved into the granite to remind us of all the goals he scored in his short life. He was seven years old when he chased his football into the road and was hit by a bread delivery van.
You need to know that it was my fault. My beloved boy died twelve years, seven months and eleven days ago and it was my fault. He had a tangle of dark brown curls and eyes the colour of delphiniums. I can still smell the soft sweetness of his skin and feel his small and perfect hand in mine. Almost everyone said that it was a tragic accident; that I couldn’t possibly blame myself. But of course I do. Every day.
As I turn away from the children’s graves to walk up the hill towards the predominantly Polish section of the cemetery, I am startled by a small figure darting in and out between the gravestones. A little boy in a blue coat is playing by himself, swinging a grubby-looking teddy bear by the paw. Grief can be the gateway to its own kind of madness, and for the briefest of moments my reason is overruled by a desperate, ridiculous fantasy. My little boy? My gut twists. Of course not. He would be a gangling youth by now, battling with teenage acne, raging hormones and the agonies of dating. I used to bring him here. Some might say it’s a strange playground for a child, but he loved it. He would chatter away to the angels and crows and try to feed the squirrels with pine cones.
Haizum has spotted the child and is straining on his lead to reach him and say hello. I pull him back and look round for the boy’s mother, or any other responsible adult, but there is no one else in sight. Seeing Haizum, the boy squeals happily and rushes towards him, slipping on the wet grass and banging his head on the border stone of a grave. I lift him to his feet and gently stroke the red mark on his forehead where a bump is beginning to form. His sudden bawling is testament to the fact that he is more frightened than hurt, and I brush the tears from his cheeks and try to comfort him as best I can. The scent of his skin and the soft feel of his hair unravel me, even after all these years. How could it be that nobody is watching over this beautiful little boy?
‘Where’s your mummy?’
He shakes his head, buries his face in his teddy. I stand up and look around again. A woman with a baby in a pushchair is yelling and hurrying along the central path, her footsteps jerky with panic and her words sharp-edged with fear.
‘Jayden, you little bugger! Where have you been?’
At the sight of her, Jayden starts wailing again and lifts his arms up towards her. He is rewarded with a smack on the bottom followed by an embrace tight enough to leave him breathless. The woman is now sobbing as hard as her son and she covers his head in angry kisses.
‘He fell. He’s got a bit of a bump on his head, but I don’t think it’s anything too serious.’
I try, but probably fail, to keep an accusatory tone from tainting my reassurance. Where the hell had she been? She looks up at me, wild-eyed, through her tears, but I don’t think she’s heard a single word, and when the baby in the pushchair decides to join the chorus, I force a smile and walk away before I say something I might regret. But I can’t resist stroking the little boy’s head as I go. Dark brown curls. I head back down the hill towards the gate and even when I reach the bottom path I can still hear them crying.
When my boy died, some people seemed to think that my grief was insufficient. Not clamorous enough. But drowning is a quiet affair. According to silver fox Frank, the truly drowning are rarely able to call out for help; unable to shout or wave their arms in the air. They are fighting too hard simply to keep their heads above the water. And so it was with me. There were awful but necessary practicalities to deal with, and I had no strength to spare for embarrassingly public displays of grief. There was screaming loud enough to tumble the walls of Jericho – inside my head. But people need to see grief. It must be on show to give them a role to play; tears to dry, flowers to send, consolation, however meagre, to offer. Stoicism stymies sympathy. Too often and too readily mistaken for cold-heartedness, it discomforts the would-be comforters and marks the mourner as strange. Untouchable.
But left alone I was a danger to myself. I have survived, but only just. And now I am caught in a rip current of grief and struggling against it gets me nowhere. The fight is exhausting and sometimes it takes all my strength to simply stay afloat. I’m not fond of the person I have become, but I don’t know how to be anyone else.
Haizum is desperate to get back into the park. He often has to stay on his lead in the cemetery to prevent him from stealing teddy bears, and weeing on headstones and floral tributes. He has scant respect for the memory of the deceased and cannot be trusted with anything small and fluffy. As we pass under the canopy of fir trees that guards the gate in the iron railings, I unleash him, and he bounds off like a catawumpus (word of the day – something very fierce) in pursuit of some fat pigeons who will have flown off long before he reaches them, leaving me to walk alone.
Alone is who I am. I have no child, so I am no longer a mother, and no man, so I am neither a wife nor a lover. I have wonderful friends whom I love and I know love me back, but no one for whom I am the centre of their world, and they of mine. Except Haizum. Which is why I am terrified of growing old. I shall finish up in the Happy Endings home because there will be no one else to have me and it is probably exactly what I deserve.
The path from the gate is littered with the skeletons of pine cones that have been eaten by squirrels, and then dropped from on high, in the hope of hitting some unsuspecting passer-by. The crows are gathering in anticipation of Sally’s arrival with their supper. They jostle one another restlessly and squawk loudly with hunger and impatience. In the distance I can see her shuffling along in her huge coat looking like a parcel that is coming unwrapped. I wave half-heartedly at her, unsure if she can see or recognise me, and set off after Haizum. Having seen off the pigeons, he is now barking furiously at the bottom of a tall tree, no doubt chastising some squirrel who has cheated in the game of chase by disappearing up the tree. The drizzle is heavier now, and despite my hat and scarf and coat I am cold enough to shiver. Perhaps it is the thought of those teddy bears, flowers and windmills lying in the wet grass on children’s graves.
Chapter 7
ART
‘Darling Masha! How are you?’
Epiphany air-kisses me near both cheeks, and then stares me straight in the eyes whilst holding me by the shoulders at arm’s length. She raises her eyebrows knowingly.
‘Hmm. I’ll get you a drink.’
Epiphany is a true friend. The kind of friend you’d take to war with you, should the need ever arise. We met at school, travelled after university and eventually worked together. She has stood by my side unflinchingly through the good, the bad and the unspeakably ugly times. She sweeps up to the bar of The Cock and Curtain and flutters her eyelashes vampishly at the delicious-looking barman, who is twenty years too young for her and about as camp as Butlin’s. Epiphany swears the name of the pub refers to the interior decor, which is a heady blend of Victorian brothel and music-hall dressing room. There are crimson swagged curtains with as many frills and flounces as a cancan dancer’s skirts, and bottle-green velvet, button-backed sofas with the odd beer stain and cigarette burn for added character. Burgundy and cream flock wallpaper provides a backdrop for framed black and white photographs of silent-film stars and music-hall artists, and a signed photograph of Barbara Cartland. Above the open fireplace is a gruesome arrangement of tiny, bright-coloured stuffed birds, dried flowers and foliage, beadwork, ribbons, and a stuffed mouse all trapped under a large glass dome. A mesmeric monstrosity, it looks like a collaboration between Damien Hirst and Laura Ashley. Hanging from the ceiling is a collection of china chamber pots, and the whole place smells of stale beer, wood smoke and furniture polish.
Masha is not my real name. It’s a nickname Epiphany gave me year
s ago and it stuck like toffee. She says she named me after Chekhov’s character in The Seagull, whose first line in the play is, ‘I’m in mourning for my life’, alluding to the fact that I spend an inordinate amount of time loitering in the cemetery. She returns from the bar with glasses of white wine, one of which she plonks down in front of me with a grin.
Epiphany takes an enthusiastic swig from her glass and leans back in her chair. Her auburn hair is cut in a short, sharp bob and her lips are a slash of shiny plum on her pale high- cheekboned face. She works for the local council in the personnel department, which is now called the Ministry of People Development, Deployment and Dispatch (Orwell would heartily approve), where I was once her colleague, and is obviously desperate to share some highly inappropriate gossip with me. The pub is gradually filling up with people like us – friends meeting for a couple of drinks on their way home from work – and Epiphany glances round theatrically before announcing in a stage whisper, ‘The Deputy Chief Fire Officer has been arrested in a gentlemen’s public toilet dressed as a woman!’
The Deputy Chief Fire Officer is a florid-cheeked six-footer with curly red hair and a definite predilection for steak and kidney puddings and pints of Guinness.
‘He was quite rightly released without charge because he wasn’t actually committing any offence, other than in the fashion sense. An A-line skirt, chiffon blouse and a rather boring twinset. Honestly, darling, what was he thinking! A Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress would have been so much more flattering. And it’s not as though he can’t afford it on his salary.’
I sip my wine, trying to keep up with Epiphany’s rather erratic train of thought.
‘But if he was released without charge, what’s the problem?’
Epiphany puts down her glass and sighs. Her expression changes, momentarily betraying her true feelings. ‘Some stunted-dick smartarse at the local nick took photographs on his phone and now it’s gone missing. The Chief Exec’s desperate to keep a lid on the whole affair, and has been closeted – ha ha! – in his office all morning with the Chief Constable, reading the riot act about the unprofessionalism of her officers and exploring avenues of damage limitation.’
I smile at the thought of the stuffed shirts having to cope with such an unexpected chiffon blouse.
‘Apparently he was just out for a walk one evening and was caught short. Actually leaving the house in women’s clothes is quite a new venture for him, and when nature called he didn’t have the confidence to use the Ladies. Unluckily for him, a local busybody with nothing better to do saw him go into the Gents and called the police.’
When I worked at the council the gentleman in question was a young, moderately ambitious and strictly by-the-book station officer, and whenever I’d had any dealings with him I had found him pleasant enough. I now had a sneaking admiration for this middle-aged individual whom I had hitherto assumed to be as sensible and dull as baked-bean-coloured tights and bran-based breakfast cereal. I’m a sucker for hidden depths. But I could also see why my new-found approval might not be widely shared.
‘Presumably the concern is the potential for a lurid scandal in the tabloids unfortunately timed to coincide with a recent review of Chief Officer salaries, which has left most of the local electorate believing that their recent hike in council tax bills is paying for holiday homes in Tuscany for the council’s most senior officers.’
‘Exactly! And it makes his choice of outfit even more indefensible.’
There were many reasons why I stopped working in local government. I’m surprised I lasted as long as I did. I was like Ginger Rogers at a Morris Dance. The current situation was sadly typical. The council had trumpeted the launch of its Managing Diversity policy years ago. It outlawed discrimination against just about everything and everyone, including transvestites. But with a real life lipsticked ladyboy in their midst, six foot four in his white stilettos and found in possession of a fully superannuated local government salary, the policy makers missed a golden opportunity to prove that here was a council not just talking the talk but also walking the walk. If the walk, however, turned out to be more of a totter in size ten stilettos, they fell at the first hurdle.
Epiphany’s many and varied talents are indisputably wasted in her current job. But as she once explained to me, it suits her well enough. Her real life is outside of work. She lives in a fabulously decadent flat where she imagines herself to be one of the women in Giovanni Boldini’s paintings. It is furnished with plush chaises longues, gold-framed rococo mirrors, ostrich feathers, jardinières, aspidistras and antimacassars. There is a baby grand piano covered in an embroidered silk piano shawl and an Edwardian tailor’s dummy wearing a satin corset and a green tin helmet in the sitting room. A beautiful Edwardian gramophone is regularly used to play 78s, of which Epiphany has an extensive collection. She shares the flat with a pair of Siamese cats – who shred the antimacassars, dig in the jardinières and look elegant and slightly disdainful – and her boyfriend, an artist called Stanley.
Epiphany drains her glass and gives me one of her looks.
‘So, tell me, darling Masha, have you been swimming lately?’
She knows about my regular visits to the lido, but even she doesn’t know why I really go.
‘I went on Wednesday.’ I give her a bright smile, knowing full well that it will look like a party hat on an undertaker.
‘Well, I really hope that all this swimming is for the benefit of some gorgeous man in Daniel Craig trunks who scythes up and down the pool like an Olympian while you pose prettily on a sun lounger.’
This time my grin is genuine.
‘It’s November! There was frost on the ground!’
Epiphany treads a fine line with the expertise of a high-wire walker. Her expression betrays that she has more to say on the matter, but she remains silent. I know she wants to help, but I can’t let her. And even if I did, what could she do?
On this occasion, she opts to change the subject.
‘Well, I spent today preparing for a disciplinary at work. Riveting stuff.’
‘Do tell! But let me get another round in first.’
Once the wine is on the table, Epiphany begins.
‘Of course, if I tell you, I’ll have to kill you.’
‘Absolutely. So, come on, spill the beans. Who’s done what – allegedly?’
‘A member of staff from the canteen has been spiking some of the coffees for the Rationalisation of Resources Sub-Committee with Viagra. Allegedly.’
‘Good for them. I can think of a few members who might be grateful!’
Epiphany laughs out loud.
‘That’s not the best of it. The Chief Executive stood up to address their meeting and found he wasn’t the only thing standing up. He didn’t know whether to be proud or embarrassed!’
We finish our drinks and wrap up against the bitter cold outside.
‘Oh, by the way, I forgot to say. Roni has a new boyfriend.’
‘Blimey. What’s this one like?’
Roni is Epiphany’s younger sister and her absolute antithesis.
‘No idea whatsoever, but we’ll soon find out. He’s coming to dinner two weeks on Saturday. And so are you.’
Chapter 8
ART
Alice
The dripping tap was keeping time with the painful pounding in her head. They had had a row and she had lost her temper. The freshly baked chocolate cake mocked her from its blue and white plate on the table.
‘I don’t want your stupid, shitty cake!’
Had Mattie really said that? Her Mattie? No, he hadn’t. He’d yelled it, just inches from her face. She could see the livid, mottled rash left by the scrape of that morning’s razor on the edges of his chin, and smell the musk of teenage boy that no amount of cologne could hide. Alice sat down wearily and rubbed her temples with the palms of her hands. He had been late and it was dark and she was worried. That was normal, wasn’t it? Any mother would be. But deep down she knew her fear was greater tha
n that every time Mattie left the house. She was always afraid she would never see him again. She had found herself caught in a pendulum trance between the clock on the wall and the window. By the time he got home he was almost an hour late and her head was ready to explode. He had stopped at Sam’s to see his new guitar. He hadn’t rung her because he was THIRTEEN! He wasn’t a kid. Sam’s mum was cool. She let Sam go into town on his own and she wasn’t watching at the window for him to come home from school every day like some sort of nutcase stalker. And he didn’t want her stupid, shitty cake!
Alice wiped the tears away with the back of her hand. This was new territory for her. Mattie had always been a sweet, biddable boy, but now she found herself living with a fractious, unpredictable teenager. She didn’t even recognise his voice any more. He growled and squeaked alternately like a duet between a grizzly bear and a guinea pig. And tonight she had come very close to slapping him. Instead she had walked away. Into the garden and down to the fence that kept the brambles at bay. Mattie had stamped upstairs to his room, venting his fury onto every step of the stairs. From the garden, she could see him in the light of his bedroom window, dragging off his uniform and hurling it onto his bed. It was too cold to stay outside for long and so now she was back in the kitchen with the shitty cake wondering what to do next. She was the parent. She should know what to do and there was only her. No grandparents, no aunts, no uncles. No fairy godmothers. She checked the lasagne in the oven. It was beginning to burn around the edges, and the filling was starting to bubble over the sides. Perhaps he wouldn’t want her shitty lasagne either. Alice turned the oven off.
