by Caroline Day
‘But it was very romantic, and better than the other one. Not the Harry one, that one was really good too, but the one on the other night, which was a bit old-fashioned, with them going to the top of the Empire Tower. But that was Bridget’s favourite, and she was crying so much, I didn’t think she would stop. I only cried a little bit. And Danny Flynn said we were as soft as each other.’
Shake, shake, shake. Tap, tap, tap. A one-spot and a five-spot.
‘And tonight it’s his turn to talk about his book when we go to the writing group, and it’s called Up-World, or maybe Down-World, and it’s very sad, with all the babies living under the ground. They have to collect the water for all of the people who live in the real world, which is up at the top. He says maybe I shouldn’t come this week, because of not being up to it, because of being too sad and maybe wanting to go away again, but I told him, not likely, I told him definitely, I’m coming because …’
Shake, shake, shake. Tap, tap, tap. A six-spot and a six-spot.
‘… of wanting to …’
A six-spot and a six-spot.
On my face, I can feel the biggest smile coming. It’s ginormous, stretching into my cheeks. And I’m jumping up, out of my chair and onto my feet. Because I’ve done it. A six-spot and another six-spot. And it’s the best thing in the whole wide world. It’s fan-tanty-tastic. Because I’ve made the probably-ty. And now I’m looking at my mum, Jenny, and I’m waiting for her to open her eyes and say, hello my Hope, and to be right as rain.
Danny Flynn doesn’t have any shoes on and I’m thinking maybe his feet are cold because he’s standing on the doorstep with his toes out. Maybe, if he wanted, he could borrow my slippers, the ones which are the paws, but only when I’m not wearing them. He has the door open, and he’s saying to Katya, who is the other social worker who isn’t Julie Clarke, does she not want to come in. And she’s saying, no, really, she has to get going, she’s just dropping off Hope and she wanted a quick word.
And he’s saying, seriously, they’ve suggested no more visits for …?
She’s saying, well yes, they said it might be best all round, just for a while, if …
I think it’s because of the machines, and the punching them, and the chair that fell on the floor. And maybe a bit the shouting when the nurse said about not doing that. And then the banging my head on the wall. Maybe because of that too.
And she, Katya, is saying perhaps it’s better for a few days anyway, and that the doctors are quite concerned about Jenny’s temperature, and they were running a few more tests, because of worrying about an infection. And she’s saying Julie’s going in to have a talk to them later. And she’s sure in another day or two … And the hospital have promised they will give us updates on every single thing that happens.
I wish it had been Julie Clarke who had brought me back. I like her accent better than Katya’s. And she doesn’t do the thing with her mouth, which is like making it into a little tiny hole.
‘But Hope, love, wouldn’t you rather stay here with me? You’ve had such a tiring day. I thought maybe we could watch Pretty Woman. I don’t know if you’ve …’
‘I want to go with Danny. To the group.’
Bridget and Danny Flynn look at each other. And it’s spaghetti bolognese, but earlier than normal, because of Danny Flynn having to be there an hour before to talk to Marnie Shale, because of his one-to-one. And Bridget is holding the cheese, which is in a round pot, and Danny Flynn is putting the pepper back on the table. Connor Flynn isn’t looking at anybody. He’s just eating his spaghetti, which is on one side of his plate with the bolognese on the other side. I think maybe he’s still cross because this isn’t the time we normally have tea.
‘But, you do realise you’ll have to wait outside for me while I’m in with Marnie? It’s a whole hour. Won’t you be a bit …?’
‘I want to go with you.’
‘And I want you to come. I’m just not sure it’s the best thing. Remember last time? I’m worried that—’
‘I want to go to the writing group.’
It’s a bit boring, just me and the chair and the desk. And on the other side of the room there are some benches, except nice ones, not just wood but puffy ones, with comfortable seats, but not quite sofas, because of having no back. The bins are empty because of the cleaner coming and emptying them, but now she’s gone. She didn’t talk English anyway.
I’m trying hard to concentrate. This week’s class is about conflict and resolution and, as well as talking about that, we’re going to look at Danny Flynn’s bit of his book. He’s left me with the printouts, which is his bit called Up-World (extract), and also some quotes which were sent from Marnie for us to think about. And one quote is about every character in our book having to want something – even if it’s only a glass of water. And that’s by somebody called Kurt Vonnegut, which is a very funny name. Marnie Shale has put in some notes saying to us to think about our characters and how they are being stopped from getting the thing they want. This is conflict. And even though my book is not fiction, but non-fiction, because it’s an autobiography, I’m thinking about what I want. Because my main character is me. And, actually, I do want a glass of water, because I’m a bit thirsty, but also I want to write my book and persevere and …
I’m not looking down at the words on the paper, but I’m looking into the room, which is the reception, but not really at the benches that are like sofas, or even at the poster on the wall, which is about saving our libraries, but mostly I’m just looking at nothing. I’m thinking about my mum, Jenny, and about her eyes just being open – like mine now, but without her saying anything or maybe even thinking anything, and without turning to look at me. And I’m wondering what is happening in her head, and if it’s a big jumble or a fog or just a nothing. I’m wondering what it is like inside a head if there’s nothing in there. Because in my head, there are words and words and words, all trying to say themselves at once. But what if they weren’t there? What if it was just empty? Would I still be me? Would I be Hope Nicely? Or would I be someone else? Or would I not even be that, because of there being nothing in there?
I’m trying to stop thinking about this, because it is making me want to hum. I need to be thinking about the conflict instead, and what it is that I can’t have but I really want.
Also I need to be reading the extract bit of Danny Flynn’s book, because of not having remembered to do it earlier, and he said it’s not even a sad bit, it’s an exciting bit with rocket-cars and an explosion and lots of tension, but still I’m not really wanting to read it, because of the poor babies. And I’m thinking about maybe getting a glass of water. But not a make-it-up one in a book or a quote, a real one for real drinking.
There’s a machine in the corner, which isn’t a silver machine, like a coffee one. It’s a square, which is plastic and clear, and I think it has water in. It has a tap, which is blue, and there are even some glasses. They’re not glass ones, they’re plastic too – and when I take one out it goes crunch in my hand, and pops in a little bit, but not all the way. It’s a little bit difficult because the tap doesn’t turn, like the one in my kitchen does, and it takes me a long time to work it out. It doesn’t pull and it doesn’t twist. There’s a special way which is to make it point down and it does a little click. But then when I take my hand away it stops. And I have to do it again. And again. But each time it’s just a little tiny squirt, so my glass of water isn’t very full, and I’ve drunk it really quickly and I’m still thirsty. I’m trying to put more water into my crinkly glass, but it’s just a teeny bit, and maybe it’s because of the big square bubble having just a little bit of water in the bottom and mostly being empty. So then I have an idea, and I take the crunchy cup into the Ladies, and there is a normal tap with normal water, it just turns and it doesn’t just go drip, drip, and it’s much better, because now I have a real cup of water to drink, even if it’s not so cold. Now I can go back to my printouts and not be thirsty.
I’m swin
ging open the door of the Ladies and seeing that the reception is not empty anymore. There is a back. It’s a person and he’s sitting on one of the puffy bench sofas and taking off a coat, which is a leather one. The hair is black, but just a little bit white, and I know who it is except I still don’t know definitely if his name is Simon or Stephen. He’s pulling his arm out of his jacket and now he’s opening his bag, which has straps and, for a moment, I’m just watching him undoing them, and I’m thinking about him being in the hospital, and hurrying away in the corridor, even with me shouting both his names at him. I’m thinking about me not being allowed to visit my mum, Jenny, for a little bit, because of it being for the best if I don’t. And I’m thinking about how I want her to look at me, with her lovely eyes like coffee with just a tiny bit of milk, and I’m thinking about Connor Flynn saying statistically and probably-ty, and I’m thinking about the doctors saying infection and concern. And I’m thinking about two dice with two sixes.
Simon Taylor is taking out a telephone and looking at it. I’m thinking about him saying he doesn’t know what I’m talking about, about my mum, and I’m thinking again, about him hurrying down the corridor, even with me shouting very loud. I’m thinking maybe he does know about my mum. I’m thinking that’s probably-ty. I think he really does. And maybe he’s being sly and secret, because of not wanting to tell me, because of it being best for me. But I’m thinking it’s not best for me. Because, flip a flipping pancake, Jenny Nicely is my mum and why won’t anyone just tell me why she’s not looking at me or why I’m not even allowed to be with her?
Why won’t anyone tell me if there’s even still something in her head or if there’s nothing left? Or if maybe she’s dead with the infection, and that’s why I can’t see her anymore.
I’m remembering to tell myself all the golden rules, about not shouting and not telling everyone everything and not correcting people or doing the other thing about … And keeping our hands and feet to ourselves and … Accusing, that’s the word. And I’m telling myself all the things I must not do, but it’s like my brain has another idea. My brain’s idea is to grab Simon’s shoulders, or maybe it’s Stephen, but very hard with my hands and to shout very loud: ‘What is it you don’t want to tell me?’
I don’t think Simon Taylor, or Stephen maybe, had even known there was anybody else there, because of it being his back that I could see, with him facing the other way, because now he’s jumping up and he’s shouting too. And what he’s shouting is fuck. And he’s turning round, so that it’s his face looking at me now, not his back. His eyes are very wide and his mouth is sort of open, sort of like a big ‘O’. And he’s saying fuck a few more times, but not so loud now, and what the fuck am I doing.
I look into his eyes and I say I want to know what the thing is he’s not been saying to me. In his face, it’s like a twitch, like his eyes just closing shut but his cheeks doing it too, before he looks at me again. With his face still now.
‘I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘You do.’ I’m not shouting now. It’s just talking but it’s like I’m trying so hard to make him do it, with my eyes and with my voice. ‘Tell me what you know. The thing you think I shouldn’t know. Because of it being for the best. Because I do need to know it. And I know you can tell me about my mum.’
He does a sort of sigh. It’s silent. With his mouth like it’s blowing.
‘Hope, I’m sorry. I just can’t. I’m not sure I know anything. I don’t know why you think I do.’
Now I know I’m right. Even with my jumble brain. Even with my memory like a flitty thing. I know that he can tell me. Because of his face being like biscuits behind his back. That’s why he was running, with me shouting at him, in the hospital. Being sly and secret. Julie Clarke said that just because he was dressed in the nurse clothes, it didn’t mean that he knew my mum. She told me it was a very big hospital with lots of different departments, and him being there was just a – it was a … the thing, like being on the coach, and finding out you’re sitting next to your cousin when you don’t even know them. One of those things. But I know it wasn’t one.
And Simon Taylor is doing an upside-down mouth like he’s very sorry, or like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about. But I do. It’s not a … the thing … a co-in thing. The coach thing. And the name thing. The two Susans, one Ford and one not-Ford, or two Ellies. Or not even two, three. I don’t believe it can be one of those at all. The word. A … The word. I think he does know.
And I’m shouting. ‘You do know. You know all about her. I know it’s not a …’ And my brain is working so hard. I’m squeezing it and squeezing it to make the word come. And it’s nearly there, but not quite.
‘Like two Susans. Or like you knowing Ellie and me knowing Ellie too. That thing. The Ellie thing. Or like the being in America thing. Everybody thinks I’m stupid. But I’m not stupid. And I know you can tell me if she’s even alive. You do know. And I want you to tell me if she’s ever going to be right as rain, or if she’s …’ I don’t want to say the word. I don’t want to say it about my mum, about Jenny Nicely. I don’t even like the word. I hate it. But I do say it. ‘Dead.’
And Simon Taylor is very quiet now and he’s shaking his head. And he’s sort of talking to himself and not really to me, but just saying: I don’t understand, I didn’t think, and, but how on earth …
He looks at me and says: ‘How do you even know about Ellie? I don’t understand. I thought …? How do you know …?’
And I want to shout, because he’s being very stupid. Because he must know that’s not the thing that is important. It’s just the word. The two Ellies, or three in fact, because of his Ellie in the party room, and the other Ellie in my school and also the one who brought me a monkey. That is not what’s important. It’s only for the word, because I don’t care about any of the Ellies. Or about the Susans either. Only about my mum. Only about Jenny Nicely. Because that is what we are really talking about. But I’m not shouting. I’m not even counting, one, two, three. I’m just looking at him very, very hard. Because this is like the emergency. Except this time I have to make my brain be clever. Because he does know about my mum. I’m sure as sure that he does. And I’m not a baby boo boo. And I’m not stupid. I need to know the truth.
‘Stop thinking about the consequence,’ I tell him. I don’t think this is the right word, maybe. It doesn’t feel like bingo. Just a nearly-bingo. But it’s not important. What is important is my mum, Jenny. Only that.
I look at him and, with my words very slow, I say, I just need him to tell me. But still he’s just making a face with his mouth all upside down, and very quiet, and shaking his head. So I make myself say the word again. ‘Is she dead? Tell me.’
‘I can’t talk about it.’ This is him. ‘I don’t even know how you know. I swore to myself I wouldn’t say anything. Not yet. I don’t want to …’
But now I know. I am right. And in my body, where my heart is, it’s tight and taking my breath out of my mouth. And I can feel bumbum bumbum. Because it means it’s real and it’s so, so bad. It means a horrible thing.
I say, I want you to tell me. And I think a bit, and I say, it’s important. And then I say, please.
‘Oh, Hope.’ He puts his head down, like he’s holding his hands by his tummy, and he’s looking at them, with his mouth doing a bit more blowing with no noise. Then he looks at me again, with his eyes which are blue, but not very blue, just like the sea when it’s not a very nice day. And then there’s a bit of his mouth which you can’t see because it’s under the other lip, with maybe him biting it. And then he says my name again.
‘I’m so sorry.’ And then he does another sigh and he mumbles a bit of swearing, and sort of crunches up his face and he does more swearing but not so mumbled.
I make myself say it again. ‘Is she dead?’
His voice is very quiet. ‘Yes, she’s dead.’
I can hear the words. It’s one, two, three words. That
’s all. Three words. One, two, three. And they’ve gone into my ears, but it’s like my brain is a door and it’s not going to open to let them in. It’s saying keep them out. Keep the door shut.
Simon Taylor, or maybe Stephen, is saying something else but there is no sound coming in. My head is too busy pushing, pushing, pushing at the brain doors to keep them shut. My hands are over my ears, with a bit of rocking. But still I can hear the screaming in my head. And it’s from me. It’s me screaming. Maybe in my head or maybe in my mouth too.
And I think he’s saying something else, and maybe something about Ellie again. But I don’t even care about that. Why would I care about that? I only care about my mum. And I’m still screaming. And I have to go. Right now.
I have to go away.
I’m looking at the lift and I’m wanting to be in it, but Simon or Stephen Taylor has his hand on my arm, with his fingers gripping, and it’s stopping me from moving. So I’m pulling his hand, to try and take it off me, so I can go away. I have to go. Right now. I don’t want him to stop me. I won’t let him stop me. I have to go now. But he’s holding onto me and trying to keep me there. The words, like explain, and talk and wait, are outside my head and his mouth is moving and his arms too, but I just want him to let me go. I want to go now. I’m pushing at him with my fists, to make him let go, but still he’s holding onto me too tight and saying I can’t go, because I need to listen to him.
And then there is a noise, like a ping. The lift doors are opening and the man who’s coming out is the one with the scarf-knot. There are no patterns today, just purple, and it’s inside a big coat. And he’s saying: ‘What is that little savage doing to you?’
He doesn’t need to run very far, because we’re so close to the lift, just between the puffy bench and the desk. Just a couple of steps away.
‘Get off him this minute, you vicious little beast.’ This is what he says, and he’s pulling me away from Simon who is maybe Stephen, because maybe he doesn’t know that it was me who was trying to go away anyway.
