Submarine

by Joe Dunthorne

  I don’t say anything.

  The hairdryer stops.

  My dad shouts up from the hallway.

  ‘We need to go now.’

  He puts on his long navy coat, although it is a mild evening.

  There’s no reply. He goes upstairs and stands in their bedroom doorway. I follow at a distance, hanging back on the landing, watching through the spaces in the banisters. I watch Mum in her pants, filing through the clothes in her wardrobe. I am careful to not focus on anything in particular.

  ‘We’re going to be late,’ he says.

  She is so white and the tops of her thighs bulge out from her knickers.

  She pulls out a black dress and considers it. Dad backs out of the room and closes the door quite loudly.

  He walks away, then stops. He turns around and shouts at the closed door: ‘Every. Fucking. Time.’

  Dad clomps past me on the landing, down the stairs and out the front door, which he also slams. My mum opens the door to her bedroom. She smiles at me and raises her eyebrows. She is wearing the black dress; it stops just above her knees. Her red kneecaps protrude like swellings.

  ‘Are you going to be alright on your own tonight?’ she asks.

  ‘Yeah, there’s some things I need to do,’ I say, expecting her not to take an interest.

  ‘What things are they then, mystery man?’

  I must be losing my touch.

  I buy myself some time by walking into her bedroom and looking out the window. Dad is conducting a three-point turn in the road. I try and think of things.

  ‘Hatch some plots. Plan some coups,’ I say.

  ‘Oh well,’ she says, hopping as she puts on her posh shoes, ‘good luck.’

  Dad has turned the car so that it faces in the right direction. He is an excellent getaway driver. She takes a pair of silver earrings out of a felt-lined box and holds them to her ears. She is a useless jewel thief.

  ‘Yes or no?’ she asks.

  I hesitate, but I’m thinking no.

  ‘No?’ she says before I can speak. ‘No, you’re right.’

  She drops the earrings in their box, which, in turn, she puts back in her chest of drawers. Dad beeps the car horn for three seconds. Mum picks up her towel from the floor and hangs it on the radiator in the hallway.

  ‘We won’t be back too late,’ she says, wandering downstairs, her feet moving deliberately, each step a distinct action. On the third stair from last, she picks up a letter; it has a picture of an aquamarine-coloured credit card with cartoon fish swimming around it. Standing on the bottom step, she rips open the envelope and glances over its contents. She tosses the free biro into her brown leather handbag hanging from the newel post and dumps the rest of the letter in the wastepaper basket. She walks, without hurry, to the front door. She opens it, steps outside, closes it. I don’t know how much my mother likes classical music.

  Over the last few weeks, the dimmer switch in my parents’ bedroom has remained at full: showing no sign of an increase in bedroom activity. I’ve been thinking about ways to ignite the bonfire of their passion.

  thefengshuicastle.co.uk has been very helpful. Peach-coloured walls and furnishings are said to encourage affairs. I can see why: peach is the worst colour. Luckily, my mother despises it.

  Shades of red, however, encourage romance. Yesterday, I bought balloons from The Party Shop. I had to buy fifty, of which only six are red.

  I blow them up and Sellotape two above their bedroom door, two to the legs of the ironing board and two to the lightshade above the dining table. I swap all the white candles on the living-room mantelpiece with the festive red ones.

  The mirror on the dressing table opposite my parents’ bed ‘drains them of vital chi and may attract a third party to the relationship’. I spin the mirror round to face the wall. Apparently, it is important to wake up and see an image that inspires you, one that is ‘tranquil and uplifting – epitomizing your journey in life’. I scan a photo of myself as a baby – ugly as Play-Doh – blow it up to A4 size and stick it to the back of the mirror. I am their greatest achievement.

  The finishing touch will come from the back garden. Because our street is on a steep hill, all the gardens are terraced with shallow steps joining each zone. Zone one is the yard, zone two has grass and a picnic table, zone three contains flowers, herbs and a feeble-looking apple tree. At zone two, I jump over the stone wall into the next-door neighbour’s garden. They’re on holiday in Spain, so we’re looking after their house. ‘A heavy statue or figurine at floor level at the base of the stairs could act to bring stability to the situation.’ Next to their tiny pond sits a statue of an overweight monk, meditating on a beanbag, his palms flat together. With my hands round his neck, I tip the monk back so I can get a grip underneath him. Beneath the statue, in the mud, an earthworm gets nowhere.

  I hear the key in the door. I am sitting at the top of the stairs in my black Lands’ End pyjamas waiting for them.

  ‘Hello?’ Mum calls, entering the porch.

  ‘Hello!’ I reply.

  She walks into the hallway, flicking the light switch on.

  ‘Why are you in the dark?’

  I hadn’t noticed. Dad follows behind, not slamming the front door.

  They stop to gawp at the monk.

  ‘Oliver – what’s this?’

  ‘He’s feng shui, Mum.’

  She takes a couple of steps closer, looks down.

  ‘And what’s all this muck?’ she says, pointing to the trail of footprints on the linoleum.

  ‘Looks like muddy shui, to me.’

  Holiday Dad appears for a few hours after a successful concert.

  Mum almost laughs. I think a little less of her.

  ‘Where on earth did you get him?’ she asks me.

  I had hoped she would ask this question.

  I speak slow and Buddha-serene: ‘Do not question the how, simply enjoy the now.’

  She looks up sharply, one eyebrow kinked: ‘What have you done with Oliver?’

  I imagine a dead-eyed Oliver clone chopping me into pieces, cackling.

  My dad is wearing his coat and flat cap; he pretends to be puffing on a pipe, tracking my footprints into the dining room.

  ‘By Jove, I think I have it.’ His voice grows more distant as he heads towards the kitchen. ‘The perpetrator ’alf-inched the figurine from our neighbour’s back yard!’

  ‘Oh God, Oliver.’ She crouches down next to the monk, looks him in the eye. ‘You have to take him back.’

  She strokes the monk’s bald bronze head. She is wasting valuable affection on an inanimate object.

  Dad returns from the kitchen with a dustpan and brush. He holds them up towards me. ‘Oi, boy, back to work.’ He is still pretending to be Victorian. ‘ ’Em chimneys wunt sweep ’emselves.’

  My mother, against expectation, finds this genuinely funny.

  They stand side by side at the bottom of the stairs, gazing up at me, blinking. They both look small. I am the grown-up and they are my hideous children.

  ‘We’re waiting,’ Mum says.

  Dad nods.

  They look perfectly happy.

  So that’s that then. Job done.

  I expected to feel more euphoric, having salvaged my parents’ marriage.

  15.7.97

  Word: euthenics – the science of improving the condition of humans by improving their surroundings.

  Dear Diary,

  Close, but no cigar. They seemed happy in the evening but the next day they made me take down the photo of myself on the mirror. They allowed the balloons but within a couple of days even they’d started to sag and wrinkle in the style of Grampa’s neck, so I took them down too.

  Every night, I listen until two for the sound of fucking. I check each morning but the dimmer switch is always turned up as high as it can go.

  Mum sat on the end of my bed this morning. She was smiling and her eyes and mouth were a little puffy because she’d only just woken up. We had a ch
at that could never have happened in the afternoon or evening; she caught me while I was sleepy. Here are some of the things we said:

  Her: ‘Olly, thank you so much for the balloons.’

  Me: ‘S’okay. Your chi was blocked.’

  Her: ‘You know that me and your dad are going through a rough patch?’

  Me: ‘Yah.’

  I say yah instead of yes sometimes.

  Her: ‘Well, I want you to know that we really appreciate your trying to help…’

  Me: ‘Yup.’

  Yup is chirpier than yes.

  Her: ‘… but that you really needn’t worry – your dad and I are both adults and although we may not always act like it, we can sort out these problems ourselves.’

  I asked her how she was hoping to do this, if she had considered writing a step-by-step plan. She said that she was going to talk to my dad about it. I told her that I was going to check up on their progress.

  All important conversations should take place before breakfast.

  They have a number of options:

  1) Seek ‘help’. My mother used to use this tactic with me – leaving leaflets around the house. But it did not work with me and it would not work with her. She would tidy them away.

  2) A romantic long weekend. We often go to La Rochelle, France, by car. Even if the trip is a success and my parents are blissfully in love, all the good work will inevitably be undone by the travel. (Car journeys are the frowning parentheses at the start and end of any good holiday.)

  3) Spending quality time together – this is a good option. If only there were classical concerts every night.

  There is one option that they must avoid at all costs: a baby. Couples say this: ‘We’re staying together for the baby,’ so, logically, the reverse is also true: ‘A baby will glue us back together.’ The last thing any of us wants is to go through childbirth. A placenta is terrible; it looks worse than jellied eels. A third-degree tear is a rip that may occur during labour – two holes become one.

  I do not trust them to take the appropriate action to fix their relationship. I will count the number of tampons my mother has left each month. There are currently eight. If she is not using them, I will intervene and suggest an abortion, more feng shui and self-help books.

  I am running low on solutions.

  Peace,

  O

  Botanical

  Jordana ought to be keen by now. I’ve let her hang on for long enough. She’s not been in school since her mum went into hospital.

  I called her up and her dad answered. He seemed very pleased to hear from me. Without prompting, he mentioned his emotions.

  ‘Alright, Butt,’ he said. ‘We haven’t seen you in a bit. Don’t worry though. Jordana’s had so much on her plate at the moment. We’ve all been having a hard time.

  ‘The first operation went okay but the doctors have said that she’ll need to have one more operation, just to make sure they get rid of all of it.’

  ‘Oh, I understand,’ I said.

  We arranged to meet up in Singleton Park to retrace the route we used to walk with Fred. Habit can be reassuring in difficult times. I get there early and wait on the bench by the north entrance. As a gift, I have brought a pack of her favourite matches: Swan Extra-Long.

  I see her coming down through the gates; she spots me and smiles. She keeps smiling as she walks; her eyes are half-closed. She’s wearing khaki combats and pink trainers. She’s wearing her crop top with the smiley rave face on it. Her hair is up on top of her head like a samurai’s.

  ‘Helloo,’ she says.

  ‘Hiya,’ I say.

  I feel something uncomfortable and tight in my chest, like I’m filling with insulation foam. I realize that I have not seen Jordana for a long time. If she’s calling you all the time and trying to meet up and saying that she needs you then the only thing to do is ignore her. This was the right thing to do; I talked it through with Chips. The foam is filling my lungs.

  I stand up. I look over Jordana’s shoulder. We hug.

  ‘I’ve missed you,’ she says.

  The foam is hardening, working its way up my throat.

  I put my lips against the downy hair on the back of her neck. Her skin is smooth and pale and less dry than usual.

  ‘I’m saw sorry. I’ve bin nowhere,’ she says.

  She sounds more Welshy today.

  ‘Oh God,’ she says, squeezing me, ‘I’ve needed a cwtch.’

  Normally, I would tell her about the other words that have no vowels. Syzygy means the alignment of three celestial objects.

  I feel my mouth and jaw seizing up.

  We stand back to look at each other. I take in her midriff and her arms and her neck and her feet.

  ‘I sen’ you an email,’ she says.

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  We hold hands in silence as we walk. We pass the lake, then the Swiss cottage, then the stone circle. We walk up towards the botanical gardens, dipping in and out of sunlight, silhouettes of tree-tops mapped across the path. There are birds wolf-whistling.

  ‘I know I’ve been a bit out of it recently,’ she says.

  We walk. I am a little bit faster than her so every eight paces I stop and say the word medulloblastoma, to allow her to catch up.

  ‘My dad’s a mess. And my brother got brought home by the police the other day. Him and his mates were riding horses down Kingsway.’

  There are wild horses on the scrags of grass on Mayhill. Some young men use them as public transport.

  Medulloblastoma.

  I once saw a topless boy riding a horse into Castle Square. The poppers on his trousers were undone to the knee. He was armed. Nobody had the guts to stop him spraying beams of lime-green Fairy Liquid into the brand-new civic fountain.

  ‘Mam seems younger. She’s getting so quiet and gentle, turning into a baby, or a hippy. And she’s totally changed her diet.’

  Medulloblastoma.

  We approach the black gates to the botanical gardens. Jordana always used to say she hated the botanics: Why call a sunflower a yellowy tallicus? I wonder whether all this trauma has softened her up. She must have bought a fair few bouquets in the last week. Good job I’ve been treating her so badly. Keeping her tough.

  There is a boy in school, Gruff Vaughan, whose parents died of two different kinds of cancer. Our PE teacher never forces him to play rugby. And even if he does play, nobody is willing to tackle him.

  ‘Let’s go through here,’ she says, pointing to the gates. ‘Now that we don’t have a dog, we may as well.’

  Medulloblastoma.

  There’s a sign on the gate showing a black dog with a fat red X across its body.

  Jordana slows down as we enter. She walks at the pace of a funeral train. I now have to stop every three steps.

  Medulloblastoma.

  ‘The second operation is on Sunday.’

  ‘Your dad said.’

  There are tall thin plants, holding up strips of pale-blue flowers.

  Medulloblastoma.

  ‘You could come along and see her?’

  She grabs hold of my hand.

  Medulloblastoma.

  I think that I have already made a positive impression on Jordana’s parents and it would be foolish to risk undoing my good work. I would be the sort of contestant on Bullseye who ignores the studio audience shouting ‘Gamble’ and takes home two hundred pounds and a washer-drier.

  Medulloblastoma.

  ‘My brother will be there but you don’t have to speak to him.’

  ‘Why would I not speak to him?’

  ‘Okay,’ she says.

  Medulloblastoma.

  ‘Sunday?’

  ‘No, the operation is on Sunday, but we’re going to see her on Saturday.’

  I stop.

  Medulloblastoma.

  I nod.

  ‘What have you been doing anyway?’

  ‘I’ve been very busy.’

  Medulloblastoma.

  ‘Revising?�
��

  ‘A kind of revision, yes.’

  ‘Oliver please, I can’t…’

  Medul –

  She stops walking.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she says.

  I turn around and look at her eyes. Some of her lashes are tangled, like stamped-on spiders’ legs.

  ‘My mother might die…’

  She gets caught up in the moment. There are dark spots on the tarmac path where her tears have landed.

  ‘I just can’t take… all… what’s going on?’

  Problems are like top trumps. I have a pretty good card: Adulterous Mum. But Jordana’s is still better: Tumour Mother.

  I imagine that if I say it out loud – my mum is having an affair – then it becomes more true. So I say something else:

  ‘Vectors, quadratic equations and the respiratory system.’

  ‘Oh fuck,’ she says.

  ‘They’re only mocks,’ I say.

  ‘Fuck you,’ she says.

  She is dripping.

  ‘It’s not the real thing,’ I say.

  ‘Fuck you,’ she says.

  ‘They’re fake.’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  Her head is bowed as she steps towards me. She puts her forehead on my shoulder.

  ‘Fuck you,’ she says, wiping her face over my collarbone and cwtching into my neck.

  I put my arms around her. Her arms stay at her side. I pull her in towards me but she resists.

  I think that paying her a compliment would be a good idea.

  ‘You have good skin, today.’

  She doesn’t say ‘Fuck you’.

  ‘I did some research. You may well have been allergic to Fred,’ I say.

  ‘I’ve been following Mam’s special diet – that’s probably why.’

  ‘You look more attractive,’ I say.

  ‘We eat loads of Chinese – for the ginger,’ she says.

  ‘Lemon chicken?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  I take hold of her hand and place it on the rectangular bump in my back jeans pocket.

  ‘I brought you some matches,’ I say.

  She pulls the matchbox out.

  I pull her towards me again. She rests her chin on my shoulder. Her arms link around my waist. I listen to the sound of scratching. I feel a faint heat on the back of my neck.

  The next thing Jordana says makes me realize that it’s too late to save her.