The Things We Learn When We're Dead

by Charlie Laidlaw

  Maybe that’s why she wanted to be best friends with Suzie. She was different. She had dreams and ambitions that extended beyond bakery aprons with STAFF written on the back. She had parents who wanted her dreams to come true. On her birthday, the year they went to the posh restaurant, Suzie had a portfolio of photographs taken by a professional photographer in Edinburgh. She’d had to shout and pout and stamp her feet to get the second part of her present. But Suzie was nothing if not tenacious, and could be loudly tenacious, and her parents had no option but to concede defeat. Copies of her portfolio were sent to a number of modelling agencies in London.

  To Lorna’s surprise, but not Suzie’s, one of the agencies responded and said that they might have a job for her, for a children’s clothing catalogue. It involved Suzie travelling to London with her mum for more photos, at which point she was taken on, which was OK because it was the start of the Easter holiday and, apart from eating chocolate, Suzie didn’t have much else to do. She disappeared off to London, her mum driving to the airport and Suzie in the passenger seat wearing dark glasses, which she’d never done before. It seemed to Lorna, standing on Suzie’s gravel driveway and waving goodbye, like a rehearsal for a future she could never aspire to.

  It was that which Lorna envied; how Suzie had charted a life for herself, not long after leaving primary school. She envied her certainties, and it threw her own uncertainties into sharp focus. It made Lorna wonder about the meaning of life, and try on her mum’s bakery apron. It was still too big, but it wouldn’t be long before it fitted perfectly.

  * * *

  After leaving school, Lorna and Suzie both moved to Edinburgh: Lorna to study law, Suzie to go to drama college. Ever since the ghastly Nativity play, Suzie’s heart had been set on films or modelling or both. For a while, Lorna lived in halls of residence, returning home to North Berwick most weekends, then only on occasional weekends, much to her mum’s disappointment. She was appalled by 9/11, but also about its aftermath: the invasion of Afghanistan, the tide of blood. Not to mention the whales, which she’d always liked.

  Her father had by then almost stopped speaking. He much preferred to sit in front of the TV, watching game shows he’d once disdained. He’d even taken to shouting out the answers on University Challenge or Who Wants to be a Millionaire? though invariably his were wrong: the capital of Australia wasn’t Sydney; an isotope wasn’t a breed of dog; and Tolkien didn’t write Harry Potter. Lorna used to wonder why he bothered reading newspapers and watching the news: his knowledge of current affairs was dismal. Mum may have had difficulty naming the prime minister, but her dad’s utterly crap views on almost everything were ridiculous, even to her. We were quite right to invade Afghanistan, he said. We were quite right to invade Iraq, he said. War might be a failure of politics, Lorna had decided, but that didn’t make it right.

  Suzie was living in a small flat in Leith and hating it. They decided to rent a flat together. This wasn’t a big deal for Suzie, whose parents were rich and who was also modelling for clothing catalogues, disappearing for days at a time and returning with ridiculously large cheques. Not so for Lorna, who realised she’d have to work part-time to pay her share of the rent. She weighed up her options, then said yes to Suzie, who immediately took it upon herself to find the perfect flat. Lorna wasn’t convinced by this strategy, and said so. Most things, in Suzie’s world, came marked expensive. Suzie merely touched the side of her nose with one elegant finger and winked theatrically.

  Lorna’s mobile rang a few days later when she was shopping in town.

  ‘The flat’s in Arthuria Road, sweetie. Know where it is?’

  She did, vaguely. Suzie’s voice was almost drowned in traffic noise. ‘Polwarth?’

  ‘Close. Merchiston. Go past the King’s Theatre and it’s third on the right. I’ll see you there, OK?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Now, babe.’

  It was on the top floor and, being an old tenement, didn’t have a lift. Suzie was already there when Lorna arrived, wrapped tightly in an Afghan coat, ridiculously large earphones clamped around her head. There was snow on the ground and a howling wind. The communal stair needed painting. Bikes were parked in the bottom hallway, reminding Lorna of her own bike which was stolen a few months after she’d been given it. What with everything else, it hadn’t been replaced.

  ‘Find it OK?’

  Lorna nodded. She had walked miles from the bus stop and was frozen. She had a woollen hat pulled over her ears and her breath hung like cigarette smoke in the stairwell. ‘Are you sure this guy wants to rent it to us?’

  ‘I’ve told you, petal. He’s a friend of Dad’s. That means he’s not going to rip us off.’

  ‘I suppose,’ said Lorna.

  ‘Never suppose!’ commanded Suzie. ‘Just do, babe. Well, shall we visit our new abode?’ She produced a set of keys, rattled them in front of Lorna’s face, and smiled her dazzling smile.

  Lorna often wondered why they were best friends because, in many ways, they were opposites. Lorna’s ambitions were rooted firmly in the possible; she remembered those old sepia photographs of North Berwick and the threat that they posed. When she dreamed, she dreamed sensibly. Her nightmares were about failure. Not so Suzie, with her long blonde hair and model figure, with her huge blue eyes and pouting lips, and her crazy dreams that might just come true. Suzie had never been studious. She was loud and crass and didn’t care what people thought. She attracted superlatives and didn’t read books. Whereas Lorna’s feet had always been on the ground, Suzie’s head was stuck firmly in the clouds. Opposites attract, Lorna supposed.

  The flat had seen better days. The woodwork was chipped and the hall carpet was stained with muddy footprints. The kitchen, all wood and Formica, was a throwback to the 1960s. But it was warm, the rooms were decently proportioned, and the bathroom was mercifully clean. But it was the view that sold the place to Lorna. The climb up to it had been tiring, but the vista from the living room was restorative. She was able to look all the way across roofs and chimneys to the buttress of the castle.

  ‘Well, what do you think?’

  ‘It’s OK, I suppose,’ replied Lorna, still mesmerised by the view.

  ‘It’s better than OK,’ said Suzie. ‘Two decent bedrooms, newish bathroom, and a kitchen with a cooker that actually works.’

  Lorna was convinced, but it wasn’t anything to do with the flat or its fixtures. It was everything to do with what lay beyond the glass; a thousand years of stones and battlements, seemingly adrift in the night air. ‘The fridge light doesn’t work,’ Lorna complained with a smile.

  * * *

  Shortly after moving in, Suzie disappeared off to Italy for a week, returning tanned. Lorna felt jealous, reminded again of the glamorous world to which Suzie was gravitating. By then, Lorna had found a part-time job in a local mini supermarket. The shop manager who interviewed her didn’t ask many questions and didn’t bother to write down any of her answers. He introduced himself as Mr Sturridge, although his lapel badge said KEVIN – HERE TO HELP. He offered her the job on the spot, then told her she’d been the only applicant. The rest of the staff were friendly enough, even the ones who worked there full-time. In the staffroom at the back, with its plastic chairs, kettle, and chipped mugs, Lorna would sit and read her law books, depositing cigarette ends into an ashtray that nobody ever seemed to empty. KEVIN was transferred to another branch shortly afterwards, replaced by MIKE, who kept asking her to go for a drink with him, or to the cinema, or for a meal, and who didn’t seem able to take no for an answer. MIKE was fat and smelled so it wasn’t a difficult decision for LORNA to make, although he was kind in a fatherly sort of way. She had also been down to North Berwick. Her mother’s face seemed more wrinkled, her father slumped in an armchair and shouting Sydney or dog at the TV. His eyes were bloodshot and his hands trembled so much that he tried to keep them in his pockets out of sight at all times.

  Heat

  A year after visiting Austin in Bristol, Lorna
was once more in an aeroplane, although this one was bigger and the passengers were more boisterous. In the seat beside her, reading a magazine, was Suzie. Lorna still had an aversion to flying and listened intently to the safety briefing, making sure she knew precisely where the nearest exit was, even if it was behind her.

  They’d travelled from Edinburgh to Newcastle by train for the flight, having been unable to find a cheap deal from a Scottish airport. From the proceeds of a modelling job, Suzie bought breakfast on the train, an extravagance that Lorna hadn’t before experienced, and marvelled at how the waiters and waitresses could balance salvers of bacon and tomato while being buffeted around corners. From Newcastle they caught the metro to the airport, where Lorna went straight to the bar.

  They were early and, inevitably, their flight was delayed by an hour. Having been able to drink additional anaesthetic, Lorna was comparatively relaxed when they finally did board the plane. Suzie, of course, was dressed to kill. Or thrill, Lorna couldn’t decide which. A diamanté stud gleamed from her belly button and the shortest of short skirts accentuated the length of her legs. A pair of sunglasses, perched on the top of her head, was almost lost in blonde foliage. Lorna was wearing a cream pair of jeans and a blue cotton shirt. Suzie sat by the window, Lorna by the aisle, as far from the window as possible.

  After take-off, Lorna bought two vodkas and tonic and a small bottle of white wine from the trolley. It was going to be a long flight and she didn’t want to experience it completely sober. She jumped when the wheels retracted after take-off, jumped again when the flaps wound into the wings, and gripped her seat when they’d achieved cruising altitude and the engine pitch changed.

  ‘Relax, babe,’ Suzie advised, flicking the pages of her glossy magazine. ‘Statistically, the train journey to the airport was the dangerous bit. Planes don’t crash anymore. It’s a known fact.’ Suzie had said much the same in the bar at Newcastle airport.

  ‘I prefer my feet on the ground,’ replied Lorna, fizzing open a can of tonic and adding it to vodka, ‘or, perhaps it’s just that I have too much imagination.’ She stirred the contents of her plastic glass with a swizzle stick, looking suspiciously at the wing for signs of structural failure.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ said Suzie, who had temporarily discarded her fashion glossy for the airline’s in-flight magazine. ‘What in God’s name is going on?’ She tapped a page with a manicured finger and handed over the magazine.

  Lorna smiled. The flight wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

  ‘Thought you’d be pleased,’ said Suzie. ‘Well, I think it’s all crap. If they’re going to show a film, why can’t they show a decent film?’

  ‘I suppose they have to cater for all ages,’ said Lorna and looked up the aisle. Mostly families, many with young children. A large and solid man with a Newcastle United shirt waddled to the rear of the plane. Lorna shrank into her seat to let him pass, as far from the outside world as she could get. ‘That’s what Star Wars does, Suze. It’s for the young and the old and everyone in between. Anyway, you never know ... you might enjoy it.’

  ‘It got crap reviews and I absolutely won’t like it.’ Suzie was adamant, and slipped the in-flight magazine back into its pocket on the seat in front. ‘I don’t like stupid films about space and I don’t like things I can’t believe.’ She had picked up another magazine and was randomly turning pages. ‘But you’re quite right about one thing, sweetie ... Unlike me, you’re able to believe in complete bollocks.’

  ‘How true,’ said Lorna and bought headphones from the stewardess.

  Shortly after the film finished, the plane began its descent. The nose tilted downward and the engine noise changed again. By then, dreaming about far, far away, Lorna was fast asleep.

  The plane landed and she woke with a startled yelp. Hitting the runway hadn’t woken her, but the noise of everyone clapping had.

  * * *

  They embarked from the rear of the plane into a wall of heat. Lorna felt she had to force her way through it to get down the steps. This was a new kind of heat, relentless and clinical. Grey mountains were carved against the sky. The colours were different, the landscape alien. Suzie took a deep breath and said ‘Bloody hell’ in a low voice. Inside the terminal, the air was cooler and they sat on plastic seats and waited for their cases to come through. Lorna lit a cigarette, ignoring the No Smoking signs. Well, everyone else seemed to be ignoring them, including a couple of Greek policemen who were lounging against a wall.

  Suzie had made her promise not to smoke in their hotel bedroom, laying down rules that also applied in their flat in Edinburgh. Their bedroom had a balcony, according to the brochure, so it wouldn’t be a problem. At the baggage reclaim, the metal carousel rattled to life and bags clattered onto it. Lorna’s suitcase wasn’t large and she could pull it behind her on its extension handle. Suzie’s was gargantuan and could only be moved by an elephant or trolley. By the time Suzie realised this, all the trolleys were in use.

  ‘You shouldn’t have brought so much stuff,’ Lorna grumbled, struggling to help Suzie move the case through customs.

  ‘I haven’t brought a lot of stuff,’ said Suzie huffily. ‘I’ve only brought what I think I’ll need.’

  ‘Such as what? Lead bars?’

  ‘Very funny. Not. I like. Looking. Good. OK?’ It was clear that, right or wrong, more criticism would be unwise.

  Outside, they had to manhandle Suzie’s bag across a car park to their bus. The bus driver, doubling up as baggage loader, could barely lift her case off the ground. In Newcastle, it had seemed lighter. But there again, they’d had trolleys at Edinburgh station, Newcastle station, and the airport. In the baking heat, the short journey across the car park had coated them both with sweat. Lorna saw that divine justice had been achieved: Suzie’s exquisitely applied make-up was smudged. Smiling inwardly, Lorna didn’t tell her.

  Suzie had taken out a guidebook to compose herself and was reading it. They were sitting towards the back of the coach, cocooned in air-conditioning. ‘This is one Greek island where time really does stretch back for an eternity. Crete straddles the junctions of Europe, Africa, and the Middle East, and has been a place of trade since the Neolithic era as well as a target for invasion for the Myceneans, Romans, Venetians, and Turks.’ Suzie snapped the booklet shut. ‘And now us, babe,’ she said.

  They drove through landscapes that were mostly barren. The hills in the distance could have been on the moon; baked and lifeless. In places, jets of water irrigated small farms. In the lee of farm buildings were tomatoes and watermelons; trellised vines offered protection from the heat. Suzie pointed to an old woman in black riding side-saddle on a donkey. Lorna pointed to an old man with a luxurious moustache sitting on a wall by the roadside.

  ‘At least we know we’re in Greece,’ said Lorna.

  ‘Probably paid by the tourist board,’ commented Suzie.

  The road wound down to Agios Nikolaos on the north coast and then upwards across a precipitous headland. Ag Nik, they’d been told, was the place to be. Filled with nightclubs, you can’t help but have fun. Suzie, of course, wanted to stay there; Lorna had thought otherwise. It’s a bit pricey, she’d been told. Suzie had eventually capitulated, muttering about the price of taxis.

  Their small hotel, in the next town, was up a side street from the beachfront. Their room was white and spotlessly clean and the balcony overlooked a small drying area at the back. Sheets and towels were hanging out to dry. A gecko was clinging to a shaded corner of the bedroom; Suzie flapped at it with a towel until it disappeared. In their small loo was a modern toilet, much to their relief. It can sometimes be a bit primitive, they’d been warned, and you shouldn’t flush toilet paper.

  In the late afternoon sun, they headed for the beach, bags unpacked, both of them wilting from the effort of carrying Suzie’s case upstairs. The woman who had met them in reception had looked at it and eloquently shaken her head. No porter today, she’d said, discovering a few words of English. Son not h
ere.

  Lorna was feeling both fulfilment and relief. Here she was in a foreign land – and, against all odds, she had survived the flight.

  They had to wade far out to sea before the gently-shelving beach dipped into deeper water. Here, Lorna dived, listening to sand being dragged across the ocean floor and, turning over, watched light sparkle on the sea’s surface.

  Afterwards, wrapped in towels, they sat in a beach taverna. Greek music played softly in the background. Suzie ordered bottles of lager. At their feet, in the shade of a bamboo awning, the sand was scattered with cigarette ends. Then Suzie ordered ouzo, because they were in Greece and you have to try it at least once, petal.

  Lorna was fascinated how the colourless liquid became milky when you added water. She liked how things could transform into other things. It had always been the little things that most interested her. She was so fascinated that she ordered two more, just for the simple pleasure of watching the liquid change colour. After downing the second, she felt that she was growing to like ouzo. The aniseed tasted sweet and sharp; the alcohol innocuous.

  ‘What’s wrong, babe?’

  ‘Jesus Christ, I don’t believe it!’ Tired and slightly tipsy, Lorna could have sworn she’d just heard a familiar voice. Looking round, and with mounting horror, she realised it belonged to Austin Bird.

  Reality

  ‘I fucking can’t believe you said yes!’ Lorna was angrily stuffing a T-shirt into a drawer, one of the few Suzie hadn’t already filled.

  ‘Oh, come on, Lorna! What the hell was I supposed to say?’

  She pushed the drawer shut and put her hands on hips. ‘Well, fucking NO springs to mind.’