* * *
After lunch, Lorna lay in the shade and read her book. She didn’t want to get burned on the first day. Suzie had gone to the other end of the beach to join the naturists, determined to achieve the perfect tan. Once again she dozed, her book folded against her chest, and thought about Leo. Had he arrived back safely? Had his plane disintegrated in mid-air?
Suzie rejoined her later in the afternoon and they went back to the beach bar for large slabs of watermelon. The Australian waitress brought over their plates, then lingered.
‘Just arrived, huh?’
‘Yesterday,’ said Lorna.
The waitress said that her name was Simone and that, like them, she’d come here on holiday. She was originally from Sydney and had been working in London, mostly in bars around Earl’s Court, which is more Aussie than English. Then she’d come here and met Nico, whose family owned the taverna, and stayed. Nico was the chef, she explained. They were married now, and had a place in town. ‘He is rather gorgeous, don’t you think, and how did you like his kebabs? Now I feel as if I’ve been here forever. That’s the trouble with Greece,’ said Simone. ‘You lose track of time. I don’t know what it is about the place, but I just love Crete. When we got married,’ said Simone, ‘my mum came over from Oz. Had to, really. Nico’s family couldn’t all afford to go to Australia. Where are you guys from?’ she asked.
‘Scotland,’ said Lorna.
‘Edinburgh,’ added Suzie.
‘Well, have fun,’ said Simone, finally realising that she had other customers and rushing off to serve them.
Lorna switched on her mobile. She had only one voice message, from Austin.
You utter bitch, Lorna! How could you do that to me! I know you don’t feel like I feel but, for God’s sake, my best friend? My ex-best friend, as it happens. I was on the balcony this morning. Saw you hand in hand on the beach. Christ, Lorna! Anyway, I hope you’re both really enjoying your holiday.
‘Trouble, babe?’
Lorna handed over the phone and Suzie listened to the message. ‘It would appear, sweetie, that Leo did tell him.’
‘I don’t suppose he had much option.’ Lorna stared across the beach, her stomach in a tight knot. But what exactly had she done wrong? She wasn’t Austin’s property. The fat couple from the plane were now the colour of beetroot. Two children at the water’s edge were throwing a frisbee to one another.
‘I refuse to feel guilty,’ she said. ‘Jesus, Suze, what gives Austin the right to slag me off?
She couldn’t face speaking to him, but knew she should say something. She pondered what to do, the knot in her stomach growing tighter, then decided that she didn’t want to spoil the sunshine by having an argument, or listening to another tirade. She certainly didn’t need to justify what she’d done. Why the hell should she? She might have hurt him, but she was innocent of doing it intentionally.
Instead, she sent him a text.
I’m sorry.
It wasn’t until later that she remembered sending him the same two words from Edinburgh airport. Then, at least, she’d had the courage to speak them.
* * *
Leo didn’t text or phone. She had expected some form of communication, if only to explain what had happened between him and Austin, and didn’t know what to think when there was nothing. Had they fought like knights over her? Each declaring their eternal love for the weirdo leftie? Or talked it over in the pub and decided that Lorna Love was a slag not worth bothering about? That seemed the more likely outcome. She had, after all, flown to Bristol on a whim for a casual weekend with an ex-boyfriend and then, on another whim, had enjoyed casual sex (twice) on a beach with someone whose full name she didn’t know.
Maybe, she decided, he’d phone when she got back, and held tight to this thought until, slightly panicked, she thought, no, he’s lost his phone and her number. Or maybe he didn’t like telephones, or the million-pound expense of phoning Greece. Suzie’s agent didn’t call with either good or bad news about her audition and so at regular intervals each day both girls could be found frowning at their mobiles and mouthing obscenities, Suzie audibly. Most nights they went into Ag Nik. Gemini was good and had a mosaic of small lights over the dancefloor; it was like dancing across stars. The Adelphi was good too, and had cargo nets hanging from the roof. It was in the Adelphi that Suzie met Asim, a computer programmer with a thin moustache from Birmingham. He was on holiday by himself and Suzie spent a few nights at his hotel. Suzie didn’t hugely like him, she explained, but he was exceptionally good ... if Lorna knew what she meant. The computer programmer flew home the day before they did.
They decided to spend their last night quietly. They still had to pack – Suzie especially. So they crossed the headland and ate in the beach bar. As always, Nico was at his barbeque. He waved and smiled, recognising them from previous visits. Simone brought over a jug of chilled wine, not having to be asked, then grilled fish and salad and fussed around them. At the end of the meal she brought sweet liqueurs, on the house, and hoped they’d had a good holiday. Will you come back? she asked.
Of course, they said automatically.
Oh, and would you mind if my brother contacted you? He’s coming to Edinburgh. He’s finished with college. Fancies a year out. You don’t have to put him up or anything. He’s already got himself sorted. Just show him about, that sort of thing. He wants to work in radio, said Simone.
Of course, they said again, not expecting ever to see Simone’s brother.
His name’s Joe. Joe Crowe, she said.
Stars
Mercifully, Trinity had mended the chewed wires and the lights had come back on. Lorna opened her eyes to bright light. For a while she lay and looked at the ceiling, fruitlessly willing herself to sleep, then dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, and, opening her front door, padded soundlessly along the corridor. At the end of the corridor was an open space in which leather chairs had been placed around a glass table. On the table were well-thumbed magazines and, in a crystal vase, a bunch of wilting daffodils. She’d always liked daffodils; they reminded her of spring and new beginnings. There was often a large bowl of them in their sitting room window in North Berwick.
She pressed her face to the outer observation window and looked across space to Heaven’s other hull.
Trouble sleeping, petal?
Lorna didn’t answer, just stared outwards.
It’s all been a bit of shock, hasn’t it? Not at all what you expected.
‘I didn’t know what to expect,’ said Lorna. The glass was cold against her forehead and again she felt a stab of pain in her arm. Involuntarily, she winced.
It’ll pass, sweetie. In time.
‘But how much, Trinity?’ Other memories had been nudging in. ‘And why is my friend angry with me?’
I cannot say.
Lorna suddenly felt close to tears. ‘For God’s sake, Trinity, why am I here?’ Lorna was almost shouting, voice cracking. There was a short silence.
He has a plan for you, Lorna. That’s all I know.
Lorna, still looking outwards, noticed that only the centre portion of the other hull was illuminated. Most of the huge structure was in darkness. It looked desolate and empty and, again she realised, much too large.
Now that Leo had come into sharp focus, Lorna realised that she hadn’t quite told Suzie the truth in Greece. Yes, the interlude with Leo had been otherworldly, an encounter in a place far away, and yes, it had been an experience that could never be repeated. But she had wanted to taste the reality of him again, to see how it would compare. He hadn’t called and so she had had to think of their brief relationship as a holiday fling – a bit of harmless fun before the plane left for Bristol. He hadn’t got to shag the drop-dead gorgeous one and had had to make do with her plainer, slightly weird friend. Is that what Leo thought about her, she had wondered? Was that why he hadn’t called? Or was he simply being practical, feeling that the distance between them, from Bristol to Edinburgh, was too great? Lorna hadn’t
blamed him, whatever his reasons, and maybe it had been best that they’d left it at that. While Leo’s silence had signified a rejection, perhaps, she’d thought, it was also a kindness.
Slowly, the dull ache in her arm subsided and she walked back to her apartment. It wasn’t home, and could never be home, however many IKEA furnishings Trinity installed. Home contained hope, and here there was none; just random memories recreated in chipped mirrors and cigarette-burnt sofas. She lay down on her bed and no sooner had she closed her eyes than she found herself walking in a place she did not recognise. She could feel a breeze on her cheek and smell summer. Although she had never been there, it seemed so real. There was a river, swollen by a recent storm. The ground was wet and her feet sloshed through mud. It seemed a dream of utter loneliness, almost of despair, and Lorna woke up feeling tired and wretched, her head throbbing and her arm sore once more.
Good morning, sweetie.
‘Good morning, Trinity.’
Sleep well?
‘No.’
Trinity seemed to sigh. Regeneration, young Lorna, is a process of change, and change takes time. It doesn’t happen overnight. But before I forget, Irene wants to see you on the High Street.
‘The High Street?’
North Berwick High Street. She thought you might like to have a bit of home in Heaven.
‘North Berwick High Street?’
It’s the main street in North Berwick, I believe.
‘I know that, Trinity. But what’s it doing here.’
It’s just a street, petal, so it doesn’t really do anything. Can you be more specific?
‘For starters, how could a bit of North Berwick have found itself here?’
I had a rummage in the local planning department and compared the original plans with Google Earth.
‘OK, then maybe somebody should have asked me first, Trinity. I don’t want to be reminded.’
Reminded of what, petal? Of being dead?
‘There’s enough weird stuff going on my head. I don’t need any more weird stuff.’
In which case I shall discuss it with Irene. Or perhaps you’d like to do that? She’s waiting for you now.
* * *
The flat in Arthuria Road had brought with it a sense of liberation. She had grown up and spread her wings, escaping the claustrophobia of her North Berwick home and the petty rules that her mother laid down. At home, shoes had to be taken off at the front door; the table had to be properly set for supper, which always had to be on the table at seven o’clock, after which Lorna would wash up the saucepans and plates while her father dried. It wouldn’t have been so bad if she could have sometimes done the drying-up, and she did occasionally suggest it, but after years of practice their household had its unspoken rules. Lorna rather doubted whether her father could be flexible and wash a saucepan. The first weeks in her new flat were a blissful release from banality, which her brief stint in halls of residence had done nothing to assuage.
In Arthuria Road she could lie in late without someone having a shower and waking her up. She could work late without her mother turning on every light in the room in case she damaged her eyesight. And she didn’t have to listen to her father’s titanic flatulence when he thought nobody was listening. Sure, Suzie wasn’t exactly quiet, but Lorna usually from them comfortable sounds – even the bass notes booming from her bedroom – because they each sounded like freedom. She was an adult, with her own flat and front door, through which Lorna would generally appear at about ten thirty at night, Monday through Thursdays. Not to mention the occasional dayshift, eight to four, at weekends.
Her job at the HappyMart had not yet instilled any burning desire for a career in the retail sector. Far from it. But it was a world she knew. Her mother worked in a bakery, and most of her mother’s friends – and most of her relatives, come to think of it, except Aunt Meg who was on invalidity benefit on account of being a little heavy, as her mother diplomatically put it. Before Tom’s death, Lorna could remember Aunt Meg standing on the landing outside their front door, hands on hips, face putrid, having only had to negotiate a couple of flights of stairs.
Lorna had experienced a small moment of panic when she first handed her job application to KEVIN – a brief stab of fear that the HappyMart might be the pinnacle of her career, and that the next forty years would be spent selling packets of bacon and crisps, which seemed to make up most of the HappyMart’s sales. When someone bought a lettuce, Lorna had to refrain from congratulating them, although the gaudy badge on her livid pink tunic did make it seem a little better. LAURA – HERE TO HELP. She’d lost her correct name badge after her first week, and that was the closest that Mike’s small tools and personnel drawer could come up with. She didn’t complain; working under an assumed name was better than doing it under her real identity, because if the HappyMart was to trap anybody, it would be Laura’s fate, not hers.
Her first day was taken up with training: mainly being shown how to scan through items and take card payments, and then having to do it for real while one of her new colleagues stood at her shoulder. She had to memorise what was on special offer and how to tempt customers to purchase from the Buy It Today Otherwise Its Gone!! shelf beside her checkout. She was told how to ask for ID for alcohol sales, what to do if someone took ill in the shop (dial 999), or if they detected shoplifters (dial 999), or discovered a fire (dial 999). She was also instructed to always ask if customers wanted help with their packing. This she quickly decided to ignore. There were old people who were clearly incapable of packing, and who were probably unsure why they’d just purchased eight packets of Jaffa cakes, but who insisted on packing everything themselves and holding up the queue; equally, there were adolescent boys who thought it was a good laugh having someone package up their baked beans and jumbo chocolate bars for them – until she defiantly stared one youth into submission and gave up asking if customers needed help. From then on she acted independently, packing for those who looked as if they needed it, and handing an empty plastic bag to those who didn’t.
At knocking-off time, tired from a day at college and an evening at the shop and with a dissertation still to write which had to be handed in the next morning, Lorna would sometimes, and against her better judgement, take home a Pot Noodle for supper. At her interview, KEVIN had breathlessly advised her that staff earned discounts on all purchases, making the HappyMart sound generous and benevolent, and explained that the level of discount rose in line with length of service. Lorna supposed that if she did work there for the next forty years, she could probably live for free, although the food it sold would no doubt have killed her long before then. Across the road was an Indian mini-market which sold real vegetables with earth still on them and real meat that didn’t come in shrink-wrap plastic with cartoons of smiling cows. Lorna usually did her weekday food shopping there, much to Mike’s palpable astonishment.
Within days, she had started playing the checkout game, which she was told everybody played. It wasn’t really a game – there were no winners or losers. It was an exercise in imagining what customers’ lives were like or, if that was too hard, what they were planning to cook for their supper. In many cases, it was too easy: the pregnant women who came in for cigarettes, young mothers who came in for pureed baby food and cigarettes, tired-looking professionals who would rummage in the chilled foods section and emerge with one TV dinner (and come in every night and buy the same thing), an older man who would buy a bottle of whisky every evening then hide it in his briefcase, or the very old scruffy man who would regularly buy four tins of dog food and who Lorna would sometimes see in the street but never with a dog.
Everyone complimented her on her tan when she came back from Greece, even Mike, who said she was looking bronzed and gorgeous and then, staring at her chest, added: Isn’t Laura looking gorgeous?, making her wonder if in the HappyMart’s mirror-world you were obliged to become whoever your name badge said you were.
On Saturdays she was usually early and forced to wait
on the pavement, pacing up and down until one of the managers arrived with the keys to open up. For a shop that sold so little of any value, including nutritional value, there was an inordinate number of locks and keys. Then there was the rigmarole of switching off alarms, switching on lights, making sure the chilled items hadn’t been lost to an overnight power cut, checking the float in each till, stacking shelves, checking inventories, and cleaning floors; tasks that were all meticulously itemised on a weekly rota pinned to a corkboard in the staffroom. For some reason, the staffroom, the only part of the shop that was a genuine health hazard, was maintenance-free. Discarded newspapers that had once told yesterday’s news now told last month’s; the ashtray never spilled over but was never empty, remaining permanently full of butts. It was stank of neglect, disillusionment, and stale smoke, which could only be partially alleviated by opening the small window that looked onto the customer car park, and wedging it open with the plank of wood handily placed there by management. Even with the window open it was a depressing and dank place. On cold days, they could have used it as a chill cabinet; on hot days it became a sauna, except for the litter and health and safety notices pinned to the corkboard. Stained and chipped coffee mugs belonging to the HappyMart family were stuck to the room’s small table, glued there by a potent mixture of tomato ketchup and salad cream, or so it looked to LAURA, who only dared venture into the staff hell-hole if the weather outside was utterly awful, or if she had a piece of law she absolutely had to learn. Usually she would take her breaks huddled on a bench around the corner, obeying Mike’s edict that staff were not allowed to smoke on the pavement directly outside the shop.
It was therefore with waning enthusiasm that Lorna now walked, term over, from her flat to her place of employment, books still under her arm and her laptop in a bag over her shoulder, the sense of freedom that moving into Arthuria Road had kindled being doused daily by the monotonous beep-beep-beep, hour after hour, evening after evening, and occasional Saturdays. She had to keep reminding herself that this wouldn’t be forever, that it was a means to an end, then feel guilty and traitorous for thinking this: she was the only part-time student in the HappyMart, and shouldn’t be thinking bad thoughts about the realities of ordinary peoples’ working lives. For most people, this kind of job wasn’t a stepping stone or a brief interlude before something better. This was it, year after year, until their shopping bills were entirely paid for by management’s generosity.
The Things We Learn When We're Dead Page 24
