by Kate Hamer
‘Mum?’ I turn to her.
She looks vague, which is how I know she’s known about this all along. You stupid, I think. You stupid, stupid, stupid. Don’t you know how hard I have to work to keep things boxed up so nothing escapes? Don’t you know the effort it takes? And there you are, ready to let it all be split apart to satisfy some idiotic worry you have about me. A worry that was there in your head on the day of some random phone call or chat with one of the carers but would probably be gone ten minutes later – and now I’m here having to deal with the consequences.
‘Go on,’ Mum says. ‘It won’t do any harm to talk.’
I let my face scrunch up at her to let her know I’m not happy. Let yourself be carted into some nursing home, I think. Then you might learn to keep your mouth shut.
I allow myself to be led like a dumb beast. I expect many things of Miss Kinsella. What I don’t expect is her to be nice. When I realise that, I know I have to be even more extraordinarily careful than usual.
‘Hello, Grace.’ Bright smile. ‘Sit down. Now, remind me, how old are you again?’ Our file is in front of her. She was looking at it before I came in. She knows how old I am.
‘I’m …’ I have to clear my throat and start again. ‘Sixteen,’ I say. ‘But not far off being seventeen.’
On the back of the door there’s a sports shirt and black leggings on a hanger, trainers on the low bookshelf. Her hair is damp around the edges and there’s the dry pungent scent of shower gel in the room.
‘So young!’ She smiles at me again.
Careful now, I think, careful, careful, careful. Don’t let on how bad Mum is and how she’s getting worse, yet how, somehow without ever articulating to each other, you both conspire to minimise this. Don’t even give a hint of how sometimes you wake up and wonder how another day is possible. But on the other hand, don’t be too bright. It’ll hit a false note and they’ll be alert for that.
‘Tell me how you’re coping, Grace. We know how brilliantly you’ve done so far. Your mother is extremely well cared for. But we also know there’s always going to be a cost to that. A cost to you. Talking about that cost may help and, who knows, there might even be something we can do, if not to resolve it, then at least to ameliorate the impact on you, just a little.’
She folds her hands on top of each other and I notice the gleaming scab of red varnish on each nail.
‘Well …’
She sits up, waiting.
I really don’t know how true the danger of our situation is. There’s no one I can ask. To me, it feels immensely vulnerable. To me, it feels like Mum could die or be taken away at any time, but how real that is I’m not sure. Sometimes I’m fine, and sometimes I’m trapped in wave after wave of anxiety about it. One thing I am sure of, though, is that none of this can be allowed to show. Miss Kinsella sitting in front of me is never, ever going to know how far I’m prepared to go for this. She has no idea that, if needs be, I will fight like a wolf from the forest whose pups are about to be eaten, like a fucking snake on its prey. I give no indication of it. It’s what I’ve learned. Let it show and you’re fucked. I breathe and attune myself to the quiet of the room. I let myself be blown on gently by the breeze coming through the window. I pause to sniff up the scent of shower gel and, under that, the smell of her scalp’s warmth, cooling now after taking exercise. I ride on all of it.
‘Weeell,’ I start again cautiously. Give her something, I think. If you just give her one or two things and they appear authentic, yet they’re not so bad as they can’t be easily managed, then maybe that will satisfy her and she will once again fade away into the background static she was part of before you set foot into this room. ‘I’ve been wondering, and it could be a really, really big help, if perhaps just once a week – we wouldn’t need it for more than that – we could get a meals on wheels. I’ve heard about them from Mum’s friends.’
‘Well, that’s a new idea. To give you a night off?’
Actually we have McDonald’s on a Saturday night and that’s our night-off treat. I wouldn’t be able to wrestle that Filet-O-Fish out of Mum’s cold dead hands, but of course I don’t mention that.
She laughs. ‘I’m not sure they’re exactly cordon bleu but I can look into it, certainly.’
She shuffles her papers around. ‘Anything else?’
‘Um, I don’t think so. That would be just grand.’ I smile.
She frowns. ‘Listen, I’m wondering if, rather than seeing you at the hospital, it might be better if we make a regular date to catch up at your home. Where do you live?’ The papers rustle and the back of my neck, the back of my head, tingles. ‘Snow Hill. I think that could be really nice, don’t you, Grace? I could just pop round now and again and have a cup of tea. When might be good for you? We can put it in the diary. There’s so much support available – I was even talking to a charity this morning that provides respite care for people with MS – and we can run through it all properly so we can see if there’s anything that fits you personally.’
I need something to distract her with. It’s the memories of being twelve and all the questions that’s done it. It felt like an invasion and always somehow thinking I was about to say the wrong thing and that one wrong thing would be the one that got Mum taken away.
Then it got easier. The last one – I can’t remember her name – got put off so easily. I just didn’t bother answering the intercom. She never took the time to talk her way in through the main front door – which is simple, there’s always someone willing to let you come in behind them to take the lift to the top floor and ring our doorbell. I have a feeling this one is different. She’d climb all the flights of stairs even if the lift was broken. She’d hammer on the door if there was no answer to the bell. And then, she’d be inside. She’d be looking at the dirty corners, the dead woodlice rolling like grey pearls on the bare boards, the rose wreaths of bacteria around the taps. The carers don’t mind, and it’s not their job anyway. This one’s different. This one’s bright eyes will flick to every corner like they’re twin hundred-watt torches lighting everything up.
‘It’s school that’s the hard thing actually,’ I say in a rush. I need to act quickly, before that date in the diary. I have a plan to make her forget. It’s reckless, but it might just work. Please let it work.
She’s slightly startled. She thought our time was almost over, just the goodbyes and the shuffle out of the door to go.
‘What about school, Grace?’
‘I’m thinking, now I’m nearly seventeen – more wondering really – whether I should keep it up. I mean, I could leave now legally.’
Her eyes pop open. ‘You’ve been thinking of leaving?’
I nod. ‘It’s something that’s occurred to me recently. I’m not sure which way to go.’ This is a lie of course; I have no intention of leaving. Escaping every day and sitting in a damp-smelling building while voices drone away about God knows what is what truly keeps me going. The structure of it is important too. The bells, the rules and regulations, the time for exams, lunch and study time all give me a feeling of having a framework in my life, possibilities. Often, I feel so guilty about Mum being alone it clenches my guts at the thought of it, but it doesn’t stop me going. That’s what a true bitch I am.
‘Plus, because of when my birthday is, I’m one of the youngest in the sixth form. I think perhaps that adds to it – makes it harder.’ This bit is true but I’ve surprised myself by telling her that.
‘Well, Grace,’ she’s saying. ‘This is something you need to think really carefully about. Of course we know how much you want to devote yourself to your mum, but you have to think of your own future and a time when, well, we don’t have to go into that – you know the trajectory of this. Honestly, Grace, I really think it would be a mistake to abandon your studies at this point.’
I pretend to consider it for a while. ‘I think you’re right,’ I say finally.
‘Really? Would you like me to speak to the school? See if th
ere are extra measures that can be put in place? Although I can see they’re aware of everything.’
‘No, no.’ I say it too quickly, then steady myself. ‘You’re absolutely right about staying on for the second year of sixth form. Like you say, I need to think about my future.’ I smile and get up to go. ‘I’d better be getting back to Mum.’
She holds up one finger. ‘Just one second. Let’s get that date into the diary now.’
I sit back down and sigh and close my eyes and wonder if any of it really honestly matters as she leafs through her diary. Maybe no one actually cares enough to do anything anyway and she’ll just come and have a cup of tea so she can tick some box somewhere that I don’t even know about.
I try to remember exactly what I said to her as I make my way back to Mum. Not that it’s meaningful in any way; I realise that apart from my one slip it would pretty much have been completely fake because I wouldn’t have known how to make her understand how I really am about everything. That is, as long as I have the open balcony – the sudden hot smell of rubber, the stars trembling in the sky, the slap of rain against my cheek, a place I can go and feel the rush of the world – I’ll be OK.
Mum wants me to go with her into the consulting room.
‘Can I have the curtains drawn?’ she asks when it comes to the examination. We keep up the pretence that I haven’t seen every inch of her. I don’t mind. It helps her keep a sense of dignity; I know that. Your own daughter shouldn’t be looking after you like you are a baby.
‘Of course,’ the nurse says and rattles the curtains around the couch, but she’s not really thinking about what she’s doing, I see that; her mind is elsewhere. She leaves a big gap so I can see the top of Mum’s bare thighs and buttocks on the couch. I nearly get up and draw it myself but I don’t. They don’t like you interfering, or making out that you know more than they do, that’s what I’ve learned.
I sit by the desk and listen to their murmuring voices as they examine her. I can’t seem to take my eyes off Mum’s bit of leg. Just seeing a disjointed piece of her is so weird. It makes me feel disconnected from who she is. The skin is very, very pale with a bluish tinge and a vein snakes up it. It’s an ugly sight. And as I look I think of the nurse half pulling the curtains round. I think, You fucking bitch, not having the decency to finish closing them properly. It wouldn’t have taken you a second to do it. However, at the same time, I also make a resolution. I resolve not to let that fucking bitch see one thing on my face that shows what I think of her. I will smile, because when you are unwell I’ve also learned your very existence counts on people like this, and they can either make it worse or better for you, so I will smile and look grateful for every tiny misjudged thing she does.
*
I’ve already decided to walk back home with Mum. The fresh air will do us good, and besides, it’s pretty much on the flat all the way, just a push up at the beginning and a hill right at the end where I need to hang on tight. As I push, and look at the back of her head, I start getting the same feeling I had looking at her piece of leg in the hospital. She has her hair cut in a bob and her head looks much smaller and frailer than I remember it being at home. Perhaps it’s seeing it out in the harsh light of day that’s doing it. We carry on in silence until we’re at the top of Guinea Lane and nearly home.
‘All right, Mum?’ I say to break the silence. ‘What do you fancy for tea? We could get some of those ready-made pancakes again for afters.’
She turns her head slightly. ‘Grace, I need to go, quickly.’
‘You’ll have to hang on. We’re ten minutes away yet.’
‘No, really.’ She sounds panicky. ‘I really, really need to go now.’
We’re at the top of the hill so I put the brakes on the wheelchair sharply. ‘Listen—’
‘Oh,’ she gasps. I dodge round the front just in time to see the stream of pee waterfalling off the plastic seat, splashing over her shoes and beading in the dust on the pavement.
‘Oh, Grace,’ she wails. ‘This is awful, awful.’
A couple of schoolboys walk past. They’re not too bad really, in the scheme of things; they widen their eyes and roll them at each other. All the same, I straighten up, say ‘Fuck you’ and that sends them scuttling away down the hill, back to their mummies. I swear to God if they’d laughed, I would have grabbed them by their collars and knocked their heads together until their skulls cracked, so they’ve got off lightly.
‘Mum, don’t worry.’ I put my hand over hers. ‘We’ll get you home and cleaned up in no time.’
She’s twisting her hanky in her hands, writhing them under mine. ‘God, this is awful, awful. I can’t bear it, Grace.’
The yellow pee is tracking its progress towards the gutter, gathering the dust as it goes. Drops continue to splash from the seat, spattering the pavement, beading on her nylon tights.
‘Don’t worry about it. You can put my jacket over your lap if you want. You can—’
‘God bloody help us. Having to put up with this.’
Then I don’t know what it is – the stress of the day, or the pee gathering and rolling down the hill – but I feel a spurt of laughter in my throat.
‘Mum, stop it now.’ I’m choking with laughter. I feel panicky, I can’t squash it. It keeps bubbling up out of me.
She looks up, her mouth twisted. ‘Honestly, Grace. It’s hardly funny.’ She looks furious and for some reason that makes me laugh harder.
‘I know, I know.’ It’s me wailing now.
‘Come on, calm down.’
‘I can’t.’ I cross my legs. ‘I’m going to pee myself now.’
‘What?’
‘I really am.’ I twist my legs together to try and stop it.
‘Bloody hell, Grace.’ She gives a short, unexpected bark of laughter and puts her hand to her mouth like she’s just shocked herself. Then she starts. Her eyes crease up and her hands flop over the armrests and she gives herself over to hiccupping waves of laughter.
‘Oh God.’ I sit down with a bump on the window ledge beside us, jam my hand between my legs and force my thighs together as hard as I can. ‘I really am. I’m going to wet myself.’
She lets out a snort and holds her belly in her hands and gives in to it. I squeeze tight, choking on my own laughter, and think, If anyone passes, what the fuck will we look like? What the fuck would someone think? Both of us hysterical, with Mum sitting in a puddle of pee, me with my legs twisted around each other like pipe cleaners and the yellow stream rolling down the hill.
7
Phoebe
Every day as I watch him he appears gilded.
I arrive at school before Mr Jonasson, so, with lids curtaining three quarters of my eyeballs, I wait upstairs as he drives into the little tarmac car park on the other side of the wall beyond the scrubby patch of school lawn. He disappears for a moment as he unlocks the heavy wooden door in the wall. I draw back so I can’t be seen as the door opens onto the garden and he emerges and picks his way down the cracked path towards the back of the school.
At home time I race upstairs, my feet clattering on the bare wood, to watch the same in reverse. The light is sweeter in the late afternoon. It touches the edges of all things and makes them honeyed. The Scandinavian blond of his hair is almost white in the young summer light. I have to think of him returning home to the smell of dogs and kids’ puke and things boiling.
I know Orla has emerged through the shadowy door behind and is standing there looking at me. I thought she’d left for the day but I just saw the flicker of her in the window. She also has a smell of dry biscuits that she can never quite cover with the expensive perfume her mother buys her. I can’t remember its name but I know the scent is marketed as upbeat, quirky, pitched perfectly for a seventeen-year-old. Something a good and concerned mother wouldn’t be afraid to buy for her daughter. Something that won’t give her ideas aside from wandering through a benevolent field of flowers, moody and alone.
Her presence is stoppi
ng me from concentrating on the dull ache in my breastbone from seeing Mr Jonasson leaving. I can’t wait. In the morning I’ll be in his class. I’ll get there early and sit at the front.
‘What is it you’re looking at, Phoebe?’
I half turn my head. ‘Not people skulking in the shadows, that’s for sure.’
I make certain my voice is thick with menace. I haven’t forgotten what happened at the river. She can make her stuttering apologies all she wants. I’ll forgive her when I can no longer taste the river water in my mouth and when I stop thinking of the blackness underneath.
*
As he talks about Macbeth, Mr Jonasson walks back and forth at the front of the classroom like he’s an actor on the stage.
I’m teetering. Caught like an acrobat about to fall from a high wire. On the one side is fear of the malign play. On the other, the fact of being close to Mr Jonasson. It’s got me in a state of unbearable trembling. Being in the same room as him is a kind of breathless joy.
The turmoil, though. At one point Mr Jonasson quotes from the play, describing a mind that is ‘full of scorpions’, and for a moment I actually think he’s talking about me. I was doing so well. Now I’m right back with my old behaviours – everything but the cutting – as if they never went away. The thoughts that loop out of control and all the rituals and tappings and ridiculous things I have to do to try and stop them. The play has got me at it again. It makes me want to experiment like I did on the day of the murder, but I’m also trying to catch that bad thought and stop it before it gets processed, and between it all my mind is at war with itself. Macbeth is the wound and a red ribbon of blood stems from it; it travels in a band across the wall in Walcot Street and ends with me, tying me up in knots so the three things are bound fast together and there is no escape.