I wasn’t sure precisely what changed. Nothing seemed to be have been achieved by the exchange. Birds still died, and, occasionally, one turned up on our door loosely wrapped in burlap. Whenever it happened on his birthday, Grumps would pick the bird up, look into the distance and grin, knowing there was an old man out there somewhere, still cursing, muttering, and thinking of him.
26th June 1960
I’m just standing there at the kitchen counter munching cereal and gawping out at the garden. Ma’s watching her shows in the living room. The canned laughter’s bouncing off the walls. I don’t go in and join her. The company of the sunset is enough. It moves across the land and paints everything rosy. I’m just watching it make the distillery peachy. Lorrie’s da’s popping into his potting shed. I see him come out carrying a gun.
It’s funny, I’ve never seen him shoot anything before. Not for sport. Or to take pot shots at the dirty rats trying to nibble their way into the grain store. He props his father-in-law’s gun on the bird bath and takes off his wedding ring. I see him pull his keys out of his pocket and lay them down in the dip where the birds wet their wings. Then he picks up the gun and wanders off to the distillery, leaving all his stuff behind.
I follow him out. Heart pounding. Cheeks burning. Knowing something’s wrong.
He holds the gun steady, studies it for a while and presses it under his chin.
No. No. I want to yell, but the words are all jumbled. I open my mouth to call him and freeze. What’s his name? I reckon I’ve never heard anyone say it. He’s just Lorrie’s dad.
You don’t want to do that, I’m wanting to say. Except he does. I can see it all over him. I feel it when I get close to him. There are no broken bones here. Not in his hand gripping the gun, or in his neck I’m putting my arm around. Whatever’s broken is buried. I stare at his long face, the frown lines like sad wee brackets around his mouth. I’m drowning when I kiss him. I’m all floppy and heavy. There’s this pain in my chest like someone put a stone there I have to carry around.
The gun is falling to the ground. I keep my arms around him for ages and ages even though I don’t want to. I’m so sad suddenly, so completely I can’t move. It’s funny. Everything feels pointless, but I don’t want to cry. I’ve got this feeling that doesn’t know a way out. The sadness moves through me like an old woman tiptoeing around the house, peering into each room and turning out the lamps.
Lorrie’s father pulls away and looks at the gun in surprise.
‘I don’t know what I was thinking,’ he says. ‘I lost myself somewhere.’
I know. I don’t feel the same as when I kissed a lad with a broken hand and my knuckles ached. Or when I put a tatty-winged red admiral in my mouth one November and couldn’t move my arms for an hour. Instead, I’ve got all these thoughts buzzing around, chasing each other round and round my head. I’m failing at life. I disappoint everyone I know. If I wasn’t here, I reckon it would be better for everyone.
Lorrie’s father is walking into the distillery and putting the gun back in the cabinet where it belongs. And I don’t even follow him to check he’s OK. I stand outside. Drained. One hand on the wall propping me, stopping me from falling –
falling so hard
I’ll never get up.
Lorrie
The day before the dance I finally got to see Sylvie. Bunny had been keeping me at bay. The lamp had flashed in Sylvie’s window that week. I wasn’t sure how long she’d been trying to reach me, but I saw it at midnight. I flashed my lamp back, wishing we’d come up with a more sophisticated system so we could say something more than ‘I am here, so are you.’
Grumps and Rook shared a beer in the kitchen, discussing plans to increase production at the distillery. Mum reached across Rook and touched his hand, pointing to a plan of the building.
‘You know, if we move this door to the other side it would be simpler for deliveries.’
Rook agreed. ‘You’re right, Lucky.’
‘Aren’t I always?’
They never needed a reason to laugh. It happened all on its own. Just outside the room, my father put on his shoes and slipped out for one of his strolls.
I snuck upstairs to try on my dress for the dance. I was going with my brother for no reason but my mother, who was looking forward to taking a photo and putting it in a frame. The dress rustled, a stiff net underlay beneath the red skirt. I wandered around the house, getting used to it, listening to the new sound of every move I made.
Sylvie raced outside in her nightdress. I saw her from the back room we only used at Christmas and for storing winter supplies. In bare feet, she bolted out of the gate and along to the distillery, forgetting to shut her back door. I followed her, wondering where she was rushing off to that was so important she’d forgotten her shoes.
I saw the pair from a distance and paused at the sight. Sylvie was kissing my father. I stared at the back of his cardigan, his hands dangling loosely by his side. He stood still for a while, shook his head, picked something up and went into the distillery. I ran at her, my dress rustling.
‘What are you doing?’
Sylvie turned in her cotton nightgown, face blank as one of the dolls we used to cut out of paper, a row of pale girls holding hands. I let my fist fly, still thinking of those flimsy dolls, the hours we’d spent together doing childish things.
‘What did you do?’ I raised my arm to hit her again, but she was already down.
‘I had to do it.’ Sylvie made no attempt to stand up and fight me. She stayed on the ground, the hurt look on her face doing all her punching back for her.
‘I can imagine.’
‘He needed me,’ she said. ‘You don’t understand.’
I could barely hear her over my own breathing. I could have killed her. I might have, if no one had stopped me.
‘What’s going on?’ Bunny arrived, pointing her finger. ‘What did you do to her? It’s always the same with people. Leave her alone.’ Bunny poked me and waved a slow hand in front of Sylvie, still on the ground. ‘You OK, petal? How bad is it this time?’ She held out a hand and, for a second, I could imagine the years they were alone. Just a mother and a shy child collecting eggs.
‘They were kissing. Him. Her…’ I pointed at Sylvie, unsure who to scream at. Sylvie, my father, or Bunny. I loathed them all.
Bunny glared at my father coming out of the distillery.
‘You! Don’t so much as look at my daughter again. I don’t care what’s wrong with you. Never again.’ She turned to me. ‘And you, Lorrie, you should be ashamed.’
She put an arm around Sylvie and guided her, staggering, punch drunk. I didn’t realise I’d hit her so hard. I stared at the pair, unsure how everything had switched around somehow. Bunny had made it sound as if I was in the wrong.
‘What have I told you, you can’t solve everyone else’s problems. You have to put yourself first,’ Bunny whispered to Sylvie, steering her feet clear of thistles on the path.
‘I’m not sure what happened,’ my father said. I folded my arms to stop my hands shaking and turned my back on him, refusing to listen to a word he had to say. I wasn’t sure if I would ever again.
26th June 1960 (continued)
I stay dead still while Ma’s tucking me into my bed. I keep picturing the anger plastered all over Lorrie’s face like a bit in a movie that gets stuck in your head. God, she was raging. I don’t even blame her. I can’t argue with it. I’ve no fight left in me. It would be better for everyone if I wasn’t here.
‘You shouldn’t have done that. He’s a married man – what will folk say?’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. I’m sorry I disappoint her. I’m sorry I upset Lorrie, but I’m not sorry I kissed him. He had the sort of sadness that was ice in his bones. It felt like all he could do was throw a coat over it, knowing it would never warm his insides. I’m sorry I had to do it, but there was nowt else I could do. Lor
rie’s disgusted. Ma’s ashamed. And I can’t do nothing to change it. I can only change where I am.
I lie awake after she goes. I keep starting to drop off and jolt upright, all these sad thoughts spinning around my head.
The day ahead is a pink streak when I sneak out of bed. I button my dress and walk downstairs with a wee suitcase and the jar of pennies Ma gives me for mucking out the chickens. I take all the money out of her purse and leave her bonnie blue handbag gaping open with the penny jar in its place.
I shouldn’t be here. I can’t be who everyone wants me to be. I can’t change either. I don’t even know if I want to. Or how.
My wristwatch says it’s almost 5 a.m. It’s getting lighter by the minute. The dew on the shaggy grass is a silver pelt. I stare at it like someone taking a photo of it. I wander to the gate and stop, looking up at Lorrie’s window. The curtains are closed. Everyone’s in their beds. I wander along the lane carrying my case in one hand. With the other, I flag down the van that delivers fresh bread.
‘You’re up and about early, going somewhere nice? You want a ride?’ The delivery lad grins. I hop in.
Lorrie
Bunny carried the canary out in a plastic box, perched her foot on a spade and sliced into the stony ground. Sylvie had been gone for a week. The last time anyone saw her she was boarding the 6 a.m. ferry. ‘She’ll come back,’ Seth had said. ‘Don’t you worry, Bunny.’ He believed Sylvie would return, but he went around the island with Zach, sticking posters to lamp posts, asking anyone with any information to get in touch. No one did. The girl had disappeared.
I hadn’t seen Bunny since the morning she knocked on our door.
‘Have you seen Sylvie?’ she’d asked. ‘She wasn’t in her bed this morning.’
‘She probably went for a walk or something. Did she say anything to you about going somewhere, Lorrie?’ My mother stood at the door looking at me, searching for answers.
‘I haven’t seen her.’ I had refused to say more. I couldn’t do that to my mother. She was oblivious to what had happened with Sylvie and my father. He had been in such a good mood that morning. Studying her grilling toast, he had told her she looked lovely, though she hadn’t washed her face or done her hair yet.
‘I love it wild,’ he’d said. ‘You look good. I don’t tell you enough.’
If I didn’t know better, I’d have sworn this wasn’t my father. This was a different man: relaxed, appreciative, interested in life. He didn’t wander away or get irritated with Toby. He guessed which cup the balls were under and laughed when he got it wrong. Looking at him, I couldn’t believe he’d touched Sylvie. It had to be her fault. I blamed her without really believing it. It was simpler than finding fault closer to home.
Bunny now placed a stone on the spot where she buried the canary. It was unusually quiet. There was a hush in the hedgerow as if every bird in the garden was paying its respects.
‘He couldn’t live without her.’ Bunny picked the rabbit out of the hutch and held it to her chest. ‘I don’t blame you for being mad at Sylvie, Lorrie. I get that way myself often enough. She’s special. People take advantage of her. You don’t have to understand. I don’t understand it myself.’
‘I’m sure she’s fine,’ I said. ‘Wherever she is. Not that I care.’
I wanted to slate Sylvie for not being as shy as she made out, but I couldn’t. Bunny gazed at the rabbit and held it so tight she looked afraid to let go.
‘Have it your way, Lorrie, be as angry as you want, but Sylvie’s your friend. You might not like everything she does, but she is.’
She carried the rabbit to the house, leaving me on the other side of the fence. Sylvie wasn’t special, and she wasn’t my friend. If that was friendship, I didn’t need it.
27th June 1960
The ferry honks of spilled coffee and the sweeties some old lady’s offering all the other passengers. I accept a lemon drop, pop it in my mouth and plonk myself near the window with a notepad on my knee.
Dear Ma,
I’m on a ferry, so my writing might look wobbly as the cursive we practised when I was six. It feels dead funny to write this. Other than wee notes in the kitchen or funny wee cards I made for Mother’s Day, I don’t think I’ve ever written to you before. I’ve never said anything I know you won’t have something to say about. I won’t be including a return address because I don’t have one. And I know you’d show up and drag me back. I don’t want anyone to come looking. This isn’t about you, it’s me.
I’m not as sad as I was just after I kissed Lorrie’s father. It all started to fade as soon as I packed my suitcase. I’m not sad and I’m not angry. I was angry when you burnt the books, but I’m not any more. What I am is excited. I can write this without wondering if you’ll walk in and disapprove. This feels like the first time I can think whatever I fancy without anyone looking over my shoulder. Don’t worry, Ma, please. Plenty of folks leave a place and start over all the time. I might be different to them in some ways, but I’m also the same. I’m just another person, regardless of stuff I can and can’t do. Who this person is, I don’t know, I just know I can only find out on my own.
It’s not fair for you to have to hear folks gossiping about me, I know. The island’s such a wee place. You’re right, there’s nowhere for me to hide. I’m not sure I can try. I can’t be sorry for kissing a man with a gun. Or helping a lass who might never have woken up. I’d do it again if I had to because not doing it feels like being half a person, just a wee bit of who I am. Whoever I kiss, and however embarrassed it makes you, I’ll never be sorry when it doesn’t feel wrong.
I suppose this letter feels funny to write because I’m not sure who’s writing it. I’m kinda someone else when you’re not there. I don’t really know who she is, or what she’ll do, because she’s never been allowed out of the house. This person’s not bad, I don’t think, but she’s not the daughter you’d want. I can’t be her any more. I’m too strange. I’ll always be just a kiss away from being a nice girl. Being a ‘nice girl’ is like being in a box. I can see so much outside of it, but I can barely move with the label wrapped around me.
I know you’re scared, Ma. And you’ve always been fearty, right from the day your baby picked a winter butterfly off the step and placed it in her mouth. It’s OK to be scared I reckon. I’m scared too, I don’t know why I’m the way I am, but I can’t keep apologising for it any more.
Do you remember those paper dolls you got me when I was wee? I always envied them. They came with all these outfits I could cut out and fold on. On the page, the lassie was blank, just standing there in her vest and pants, but I could dress her as a cowgirl, a magician’s assistant, a teacher, a nurse. Just like that. Zap! I reckon everyone starts out as a paper doll, like we can be anyone, until people tell us we can’t. That’s how I feel now, like I can do anything. I can live any life I want without you insisting only one fits. Kiss the rabbit for me, kiss the canary, kiss Nan. I’m sorry I won’t be able to any more. When I’m settled, I’ll send a postcard to let you know I’m alive. Right now, you should know that’s how I feel, a wee bit scared, but alive.
Love (it’s easier to say without you butting in and doing something that gets in the way),
Sylvie xxx
I don’t have any envelopes. I ask at the snack shop and a lady in a wool coat overhears. She’s got this stack of brown envelopes and lavender notepaper. I wonder if she’s writing love letters she wants to disguise as gas bills. I offer to buy the envelope off her, but she gives me two. ‘Just in case.’ I rip the letter out of my diary and shove it in an envelope for Ma. Then I stare at the waves. The ferry’s folding the water behind us into a pathway of feathers. The gulls follow.
I don’t know where I’m going when I get to the mainland. I reckon I’ll hop on a bus and just stay on it until I reach somewhere worth staying put. That’s the plan. As plans go it’s not much, but it’s mine.
; Lorrie
They found the diary in the café at a station, a crescent of cola on the cover and small perfect handwriting that didn’t want to be seen, yet seemed worried about being graded at the same time. Bunny came to the chemist where I’d got a job once school finished. The nights were drawing in. The church was decorated with gourds for the harvest festival. There were scarecrows everywhere, strapped to fences, propped above drystone walls for the scarecrow competition.
‘I just thought I’d let you know Sylvie’s not in a ditch,’ Bunny said, picking up a packet of aspirin. ‘Someone found her diary in Edinburgh.’
‘I’m not bothered,’ I said.
Sylvie had been gone for three months. The village hissed with whispers. Some said she must have had a boyfriend she ran off with. Others insisted she wasn’t the sort, and Bunny probably sent her to a convent somewhere. Occasionally, I heard the odd comment I wasn’t expecting. I’d hear it at work when people collected their parents’ prescriptions, or came in to buy perfume for a date.
Marjorie Swift picked up a jar of hand cream and opened it. Since sewing class, her brother had joined the navy and her father had been forced to take her on as an apprentice. She was so slight she’d struggle to lift a footstool, but her hands were something else. Sturdy and long, they were strong enough to crack lobsters.
‘I’ve been asked on a date,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t know if I can go. He wants to go out for crabs.’ She turned her hands over to show me her fingertips, so tough she wore crocheted gloves whenever she wasn’t working. ‘I don’t think I can do that with my gloves on though. I’m sorry about your pal disappearing,’ she said. ‘I always liked Sylvie.’
Something Like Breathing Page 19
