‘Birds die,’ Grumps said, dipping a cracker into a jar of beetroot.
‘Not in the same place all the time. There was one last month too. Why here? You know who’s leaving them here, don’t you? Why don’t you call the police?’
‘And tell them what? Birds die? I think they already know that, Cora. Don’t worry about it. He’s harmless. Crazy, but harmless.’
‘Who?’
Grumps started to whistle. The conversation was officially over. He could live with dead birds more than the breaking of rules he’d lived his whole life by:
1. Do what you have to do to get by
2. Respect your family
3. Choose your friends wisely
4. Tell nobody nothing, not even the police. No one respects a telltale
5. It’s Us against Them
It wasn’t always clear who exactly Them really was, but in any given circumstance there was always a Them.
Rook grinned watching Grumps and my mother talk, enjoying their voices, the ordinary reassurance of how they were always the same.
‘I’m away for the day,’ he said. ‘See you in the morning.’
‘Stay for supper, what’s the rush?’ Grumps said.
There was nothing stopping Rook staying a while. There was no wife waiting for him in his cottage on the south side of the island. No children wanted him to fix their bikes. Nothing waited for him but the wild deer he hunted, and the pots he put out for langoustine. He took a step into the kitchen and took a step out when my father stepped into the room.
‘No, really I’d better be going.’
‘You better had,’ my father said.
‘I’ll be seeing you on Monday, Lucky.’
My mother smiled, though she knew as soon as Rook left her husband would say, ‘What does he still call you Lucky for anyway? It’s ridiculous. You’re not a kid any more.’
I grabbed my bag, seizing my chance to make my escape in the shuffle of someone else leaving. ‘I’d better be going too.’
It was Friday. I’d wolfed down oatcakes, lacking the patience to sit through dinner. The endless waiting. Toby’s pointless facts about milk and cabbage, my mother’s boundless interest in his random facts. I was starting to see her fascination in whatever he had to say wasn’t what it seemed. She wasn’t that interested in the life of Houdini. She was more interested in filling the silence. So long as my brother was talking, it was less obvious she and her husband had little to say.
‘Hold on missy, not so fast! Where did you say you’re going?’ she asked.
‘I’m working on a sewing project with my friend, Blair. I already told you.’
‘You’re not much of a sewer, Lorrie. Can’t her mother help her?’
‘Blair’s mother lost her hand,’ I said. I don’t know why. It would be a difficult lie to keep up. Suddenly, my heart was beating fast. If she ever met Blair’s mother, I’d have to say it grew back, or insist she must be thinking of somebody else.
‘Oh, that’s awful!’ My mother touched her collarbone. ‘How did it happen?’
‘Boating accident,’ I said. ‘A couple of years ago. Blair’s never had fish since, her mother won’t have it in the house.’
I was back on track. My mother was horrified picturing fingers in propellers, a life without trout. Whenever I mentioned Blair from now on, she’d scour a pan, knead scones or scrub the counter vigorously, afraid that if she didn’t use her hands to their full extent something might take them away.
‘And someone’s dropping you off later? I don’t want you walking in all weathers.’
I dragged myself closer to the door, pretending I wasn’t desperate to race out of it.
‘They wouldn’t need to if I could take the car.’
Grumps stroked his chin, remembering our lessons around and around the distillery where the trucks dropped off the grain.
‘You could take my pick-up.’
‘She’s not driving anywhere until she has her licence,’ my mother said.
I sulked enough to make them glad to see the back of my lying behind. I was finally out of there. I’d been dreaming of this forever. Tonight, I was going on my first date and I couldn’t wait.
9th May 1960
The rattling at my door sounds kinda funny. Clank, clank, clank. Zach’s knocking with a chain in his fist. I’ve got it into my head I want the canary’s cage to swing from a hoop by the window. I want it to be able to peek up at the sky and pretend to fly. Zach scores a cross on the ceiling with the pencil that lives in his shirt pocket. I sit on the rocker keeping him company.
‘I haven’t seen your pal this week,’ he says.
He knows her name fine well, but he’s refusing to say it. I wonder why.
‘Lorrie,’ I say.
‘Aye, Lorrie. I saw her all dressed up as if she was going dancing or something.’ The hook screws into the ceiling. Bits of plaster sprinkle onto the birdcage like a dusting of snow.
‘She’s always dolled up,’ I say. ‘It’s just how she is.’
‘What do you lasses do anyway? Just listen to music? What sort of stuff does she like?’
‘Urm… everything, anything, so long as she can dance to it. What do you care anyway?’
‘I don’t. I’m just making conversation.’
Zach hangs up the cage and goes. The canary hops around the swing, not sure it’s safe to get on. It’s not like that lad to make conversation. The only thing he normally makes is a mess in the kitchen with his sandwiches. Marmalade on brown bread. Always crumbs all over the shop. Not a plate in sight. That’s it! I reckon there’s a reason he wants to chat. Lorrie. Just last week he caught me carrying glasses downstairs after she’d gone and said, ‘Milkshake, again? Raspberry? It’s always the same. Is it Lorrie’s favourite or something?’
I never noticed before, but he likes her, I think. Or he’s thinking about liking her, anyway. Gathering snippets of information like a horny squirrel and deciding if he likes what he finds. Wow! They could start courting. Then get married. And Lorrie would be like my sister and we’d be friends until we’re old ladies who keep our teeth in a glass. Or, I reckon, it could go the other way. God, they could start courting, then fall out and hate each other forever. And Lorrie would never come here ever again.
I wonder if I should tell her? Naw. Bollocks to that. It would make her unbearable, that’s if she still likes him, anyway. I don’t know if she does. If she did, I reckon she wouldn’t be going out with someone else. I’m not supposed to know, but I do. She’s been whispering about it with Blair all week. I keep seeing them giggling and shushing, shush, shush shush like two lassies in a contest for impersonating the sea. ‘What am I going to wear? Shall I curl my hair?’ It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out. Lorrie can’t keep a secret like me. I know her way better than she thinks.
Lorrie
I struggled to blink coming out of Blair’s room. I was wearing so much mascara my lashes were zipped together. I was surprised Blair hadn’t put on a coat and snuck out without anyone seeing she was wearing a bullet bra. It never occurred to her. She strolled into the lounge carrying her jacket over her arm.
‘Don’t you girls look cracking.’ Mrs Munro glanced up from a mirror magnifying her pores, tweezers perched over her eyebrows.
The cottage was nothing like anyone could imagine from the outside. The outside was the same as any other: slate-roofed, stony and crouched. The inside was fluffy with shagpile, the coffee table was kidney-shaped. The wooden beams were covered with postcards of movies, and most of the furniture was lined against the walls, making room to dance. Unlike every room I’d ever been in, the chairs didn’t all face the fire. They tilted towards the glow of the jukebox filling one wall. Mrs Munro put down her tweezers and got up to select a song.
‘Do you like it, isn’t she a beauty?’ She ran a finger along the glass display, one eyebrow plucked into surprise, one down to earth. ‘I got it from a fella who knocked
me off my bicycle. The one who owns that pub on the other side of the island. “What will it take not to get the police involved?” he asked, “What’ve you got?” I said. He was seven sheets to the wind. I’ve still got still a funny bump where I went over. Look.’ She held out her hand to show me the egg of one wrist bone so much bigger than the other. ‘But hey, it’s worth it. I couldn’t live without my music.’
She laughed the sort of laugh that drags along anybody who hears it. Blair took a cigarette from her handbag. Mrs Munro didn’t blink. The pair reminded me of roommates more than mother and daughter. I’d never known anybody with parents like hers, parents who put being friends before anything else. I still don’t.
‘You going somewhere nice tonight?’ Blair asked.
‘I’m going out for a mussel supper with someone who owns a carpet-cleaning business,’ Mrs Munro replied. ‘I was hoping he could sort out that rug.’
We took a moment of silence to consider the rug where red wine went to die. Looking at it, I noticed the shag pile carpet beneath it didn’t fit wall to wall. It was patched together with offcuts from the hotel where Mrs Munro worked. The mints in the Murano glass bowl came from the same place, so did the books of matches she left lying around.
‘So, how about you?’ Mrs Munro asked. ‘What are your plans?’
‘We’re meeting a couple of guys I know,’ said Blair.
There was no need for her to lie. Mrs Munro made no demands. My parents would have insisted on being introduced to whoever wanted the pleasure of my company. Any potential date would be forced to suffer Toby’s pointless facts about liver, my mother’s cooking, and my father’s silence, before they had permission to take me anywhere. It didn’t seem a fair trade.
The island had a shortage of places we could go to with our dates. The only cinema was Movie Night in the village. Fraser Campbell sometimes set up a projector in the church and his wife would make popcorn and wander down the aisle selling it in paper bags. It was rare their friend in England could get his hands on a ‘damaged’ film anyone had ever heard of. But occasionally the projectionist sent gold: Frankenstein, The Wolf Man, even The Wizard of Oz. People cheered so loudly when Dorothy got home, Fraser smiled, let the credits roll and put on the film again from the start. Wherever I went, for months, I’d hear someone thinking about it. Farmers whistled ‘If I Only Had a Heart’, rounding up their sheep. Children plodded to school whispering about lions, tigers, and bears. Even our teacher, Miss Stone, hummed ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’ while she wandered around making sure no one was cheating on their exams. Everyone in the village crammed into the church for a movie. It was no place for couples to hold hands.
There were no dance halls to attend either. The island offered would-be lovers no entertainment but a bar in the hotel on the south side, and the café that stayed open late on Fridays.
Blair and I waited outside it, the wind lifting our hair and making our faces sting. The sign over the café was blank and had been for over a month. Elizabeth Roe had been cleaning the windows one day when she’d noticed something she hadn’t before. She rushed in to tell her husband with the wet rag still in her hand, dripping all over the floor.
‘This place doesn’t have a name!’ she said.
‘Eh? What are you on about, woman?’ Harvey replied. ‘Of course it does.’
‘It doesn’t, not really, come see.’ She dragged Harvey outside, a few customers following with their hands in their pockets, curious to see what all the fuss was about. They looked up at the sign over the door: CAFÉ. That’s all it said, nothing more. There was only one café on the island, so there’d never been a reason to give it a name. Elizabeth had never thought about it before, but it bothered her now. The place was their baby, lavished with all the love and attention they had planned on giving to the children they hadn’t been blessed with. It should have had a christening. How had she never noticed before?
She scraped the ladder across the path. Customers sipping their tea looked up at her wellies as she got out a paintbrush and whitewashed over the sign.
‘There,’ Elizabeth said, ‘it’s all ready for a proper name to be painted on now.’
Just what that name would be had been open to debate. Harvey had suggested Harvey’s Place and was met with a glare. He changed tack, suggesting Beautiful Elizabeth’s Café instead, and fared no better. ‘You have no imagination. Leave it to me,’ she said, making a cup of coffee so strong her husband couldn’t drink it without gurning.
It was a recent development, later closing on Fridays. Elizabeth Roe had a soft spot for musicians and let one play most weekends, as long as they promised to include a Johnny Cash song. ‘More trouble than it’s worth,’ she would say every week, sweeping dropped crisps and spilled cola off the floor. ‘Who’d have thought people who came to hear ballads of love and murder could make such a mess? This is the last straw, it isn’t worth it.’ She would swear off music night until the next guy came in with a scruffy guitar case and a bellyful of hope. Joe Clark played once, before he bust his hand. By all accounts he was good, though I didn’t see him myself. Bunny wouldn’t let Sylvie out after six. I stayed in and kept her company that night, rather than let her feel she was missing out. That, and I’d had a cold sore that was visible through my lipstick.
The boys rocked up twenty minutes after Blair and I arrived. The first thing I noticed was they weren’t wearing ties. The second thing I noticed was they weren’t strictly boys. They were older than us and they were mechanics. Looking at them, I could have guessed. Their jeans had deep pockets, their fingernails were only just clean. Their quiffs were oily and dark.
‘Evening, ladies.’ The gangly one grinned, a slither of it was for me, the lion’s share was Blair’s. The shorter one and I looked at one another in wordless realisation: oh, this one must be mine. Blair pointed at the shorter guy, then at me, tying us together with a swirl of her finger. ‘This is Lorrie. Lorrie, this is Cal.’ Her date was called Dobby. I supposed it was his surname. He looked like a Dobby. Looking at him, it was possible to imagine headmasters barking that name, sergeants drilling it into him, bosses yelling it across the garage, and no one ever whispering it.
Blair and I were careful not to snag our stockings on the wrought-iron table. We sat in the corner of the café. Boys on one side of the table, girls on the other. Blair knew Dobby well. They joked and poked fun at one another in the manner of a couple who know they don’t have to behave to be liked. We ordered fizzy drinks while Cal and I made the sort of small talk that lets you get to know someone, but not well. What sort of music do you listen to? What do you do? What do you do for fun? How long have you two been friends? Cal had known Dobby all his life. When they weren’t changing brake pads, they would take their boats out around the island.
An Evaluation of Cal Jameson
Notes: The arcs of his fingernails are shiny and black – motor oil mingled with the Brylcreem in his hair. He runs his hand through it often, strutting up his quiff, slick as a peacock with its feathers raised. It’s hard to imagine his laugh doesn’t coat his mouth with treacle, it’s so sticky and dark there’s no way to describe it as anything but dirty. It spills out with a joke I don’t understand. I smile anyway – a woman of the world.
Palate: He tastes of the snifter of drink he keeps in a crocodile-covered hip flask, cola, and the lip gloss of a dozen girls his friend has set him up with before. There’s a wry twist to his mouth, bitter at recalling polite dinners served by the parents of girls. They always asked what his father does for a living and his reply would taste sour in his mouth: ‘I don’t know. If I ever meet him, I’ll ask him.’ He is tired of thanking strangers for a lovely meal, knowing he’ll never be invited again. Boys like him don’t deserve nice girls. To date him, a girl must slip off her heels and sneak out after dark.
Finish: He slips his overalls off at 5 p.m. in favour of jeans and shirts he refuses to fasten to the neck – a buttoned-up collar is one step off a desk job, a leash cutting in. N
ot in this lifetime, not him. Until his apprenticeship is served odd jobs supplement his wage. There’s always someone around who wants something doing but doesn’t want to get their hands dirty. He’s the man for the job.
Overall: That variety of boy it isn’t possible to imagine having said please, not once in his life.
Cal wanted to know if I’d ever been out to any of the other islands dotted around the coast. Some were inhabited by nothing but pods of seals and, some said, selkies. Others had small populations who did things their own way.
‘There’s a whole other world out there,’ Cal said.
‘I’ve never been,’ I said. ‘Grumps, my grandfather, put me off. The people who live there aren’t friendly, he says. Outsiders aren’t welcome.’
‘True, locals can be a bit cagey, but, I don’t know…’ Cal fidgeted with the menu and considered the fried squid. ‘You have to respect anyone who lives there in all seasons. They follow their own rules. It’s beautiful. I’ll show you one day.’ He drummed his fingers on the table, impatient with the service, or at how slow getting to know someone is – I couldn’t tell. ‘So, what do you want to be when you grow up?’ he asked.
‘Happy,’ I said. It wasn’t true. I wanted to be a femme fatale – stylish, rich, famous. I wanted to be special somehow. But once, when I’d asked Sylvie what she wanted to be she’d replied ‘happy’. That was all. I’d liked the sound of it.
‘That’s the coolest answer to that boring question I’ve ever fucking heard,’ Cal said.
Elizabeth Roe came over with a notepad. ‘Everything OK, kids?’ she asked. ‘Anything else I can get you?’
Something Like Breathing Page 11
