by Sarah Hall
Martin, Jem’s dad, had had cancer. He was extremely lucky. He had one lung and he’d had chemotherapy while living in his caravan in Catton Park. It’d taken months for him to get better and during that time Jem hadn’t seen him much. He’d said, before he’d been told he would be fine, that if he wasn’t going to be fine he wanted to be put down. Before he started to mess himself. He wanted sleeping pills or to be dropped off the bridge into the river. After the chemotherapy Martin’s eyebrows didn’t come back.
He still smoked sometimes, at the pub, and after tea. Mumm-Ra said he was an imbecile and would be seeing her soon enough if he didn’t stop – she’d be zipping him up. Mumm-Ra worked in the mortuary at the hospital. She wore blue scrubs. She looked like a doctor, but she wasn’t one, even though she’d taken exams as part of the job. A practical exam and a written exam. After she’d said the thing about Martin, Jem had wondered for a while about people being zipped up, as if they were bags. She knew it meant something else. Jem didn’t like to think about what Mumm-Ra did at work, which involved glue and chemicals, and not crying while other people cried.
Mortuary. Mortuary. Sometimes words got stuck in her head, usually if they sounded a certain way – strong, important.
The street had been busy all morning. It wasn’t raining. People were standing about with their front doors open and their arms crossed and they were talking about what had happened and waiting to hear more. Before Gran had gone, Jem had been standing around too. The rules about who you could talk to, when, and where, had been suspended. People she didn’t know had said things to her like, What a tragedy, and, Oh my Lord. She’d even missed watching Thundercats, which was her favourite programme.
The baby had been a tiny baby, a newborn. No one knew if it was a girl or a boy or what its name was. Maybe it didn’t have a name yet. People on the street had seemed angry there was no name and were tutting a lot. She wondered if that meant the baby wasn’t a proper person yet, or was beyond civilization.
Jem’s brother hadn’t seemed like a proper person until he’d been given his name. Mumm-Ra had been too sad to give him a name in the first week because his dad had gone back to Yugoslavia. For good, because of the war. She’d also had a Caesarean so she couldn’t come downstairs. Caesarean. Mumm-Ra had a smiley scar that was hidden by the hair there, and a skin fold, not that Jem saw that part much. Gran had had some serious words with Mumm-Ra and then they’d taken Jem’s brother to the town hall. Her brother was called Sava. It was a name from his dad’s country – Gran had found it in a book. Everyone called him Sav. Jem couldn’t really remember Sav’s dad, except for his red checked shirt and jars of sweet pickled seafood that he ate on black crackers. Mumm-Ra and Martin had chosen Jem’s name together before they’d split up. Jemima. Jem hated it. Posh, or a duck, were the bullying options. Everyone called her Jem, luckily, but that didn’t stop people not liking her at school. Mum had become Mumm-Ra after Thundercats Series One and the big argument over Jem’s bike and because of her job. Jem never said it out loud though. Gran’s real name was Marcy. You couldn’t write a report at school about a book unless you said why the characters were called what they were and what it meant. Naming humans was complicated, and went wrong really easily, and people fought about it, so Jem hadn’t minded if the baby didn’t have a name. It was neglect, people were saying, poor little mite.
People were also saying that the baby had been left outside in a basket in the yard, near the kennel. It’d been crying for hours. Dogs didn’t like crying babies. The man’s girlfriend was very thin and hadn’t even looked pregnant. Then she was holding a screechy bundle outside their front door and there was a big party and the next day there were bin-bags full of bottles and cans on the pavement. Jem didn’t know their names, the man and his girlfriend. They lived thirty-two doors down. That was very close. If what had happened had been an asteroid, it would have hit Jem’s house too, but asteroids were rare and they usually hit deserts.
The baby had already been taken away in an ambulance. The man had been taken away by the police, because he was the dog’s owner and responsible. Possibly he was also drunk. Someone who had passed by the house had looked in and said that the girlfriend was sitting at the kitchen table, not crying, just drinking a can of lager. Someone else had said that she was hysterical; she’d screamed and hit the policeman who’d arrested her boyfriend. Hysterical. Jem had thought that meant funny.
It was hard to know what to believe. She didn’t have any friends on the street. Deborah Mason lived a few doors down, but she and Deborah were not friends. Deborah called Sav a half-caste commie bastard. She called Jem duck-fuck. She said once that Thundercats was a stupid television programme, why did they have blue faces? Jem tried to explain they didn’t, only Panthro, and actually his face was grey, which had made things worse. She’d ended up with a horse-pinch on the arm that was red and sore for a week. Deborah was two years older than Jem and at a different school, but they took the same bus. Deborah was always talking about her periods, but she called it red-eye or painters or the-blob, and her Tampax was always in wrong and uncomfortable, and it made the whole thing sound horrible.
Deborah had talked to Jem earlier on the street though, in a normal conversation, without any insults. She’d said the baby had been picked up by the neck and shaken to death. The dog had bitten right through the baby’s neck. Decapitated it. Then it had licked up all the blood. Deborah’s mouth looked horrible when she said this, glistening and dramatic, and her tongue tip came out between her teeth. Some of what she said might have been true, but a lot definitely wasn’t. Jem had nodded and tried to look impressed. You made the most of it when the rules were gone. But after a second or two, Deborah’s face had gone blurry, as if she was under a swimming pool. Jem’s stomach had sent a bile bubble up to her mouth, which popped and tasted disgusting. Gran had called her in not long after that to mind Sav because she was going to the social club and Mumm-Ra wasn’t back from her night shift.
*
Mumm-Ra was home now, looking withered and baggy in her uniform. She was moving around the kitchen slowly. She was, Jem knew, capable of turning into a monster if everyone wasn’t careful. Night shifts were killing her, Gran often said, but Jem knew her mother would never die, just like actual Mumm-Ra, it was impossible. She was far too powerful. There were probably a lot of evil spirits where she worked, which might help summon her strength. Jem didn’t really believe in spirits and thought the séances some of the girls in her class had done in the store cupboard were stupid, obviously fake. Night shifts paid well though, especially at weekends.
Mumm-Ra was opening a tin of tomato soup, while Sav flicked bits of baby food all over the floor. Mumm-Ra had cut her hair very short last year because Sav was a puker and she was sick of washing sick out of it. Other mothers got perms and crimps. From behind, in the uniform, she looked almost like a man.
Sav was nearly two. He was extremely strong and didn’t like to do what anyone wanted him to do. He liked to prod eyes and to smash down towers of objects he’d stacked. Steering him along to the newsagent’s to get sweets or collect Gran’s paper was impossible. If the man’s dog had gone for Sav, he probably would have blinded it.
It’s not the dog that should be put down, Mumm-Ra was saying, quietly. Some people should have to get a licence to breed. She was up to speed on the situation, even though she’d only just got back. Maybe she’d seen the baby. Maybe she’d actually been handling the baby. Putting it back together. Making it look not so bad for the relatives, with powders and cream. Cosseting, it was called. Gran said what Mumm-Ra did was sort of what a beautician did, but much harder.
Jem never talked about Mumm-Ra’s job. If people asked in school, she always said hospital orderly or a nurse. The source of all Mumm-Ra’s power probably came from her ability to do what she did to bodies, which didn’t scare her, though Gran said it certainly took its toll. Because death, and people’s grief, were exhausting. Morticians often had to stop working. Some
went mad, really mad, with roaring in their heads, or they disappeared and were found in the woods. Nerves of ice, Martin said about Mumm-Ra.
Martin wasn’t able to pay much money towards Jem, some months nothing at all. He did get disability benefit for having only one lung though. And the house they lived in had belonged to Martin’s mother. Useless, is what Mumm-Ra said about Martin, a useless lump, but they were quite like friends. Martin had even put his arm around Mumm-Ra when Sav’s dad left and had offered to stay. Mumm-Ra said no. No, no, we’re the opposite, Martin, the absolute opposite. Sav’s dad was a roofer, an expert roofer; he’d worked on the repairs on the prison in the castle. He’d worked legally. Then he’d gone back home because men especially were needed. Unlucky in love, Gran said about Mumm-Ra. She likes the leavers, your mother. If a man won’t marry you before the babies come, Jemima, he’ll be gone after. That fellow will have a family, I bet, never mind any war.
Gran had bits and bobs of wisdom about men. Her husband had died before Jem was born. He’d been called Leonard. Gran had burgundy hair that was white at the roots. She drove a green Maxi and could fix the fanbelt herself when it squealed. There were always soft mints and a packet of Merits in her purse. She slept in Mumm-Ra’s room overnight when Mumm-Ra was working.
Mumm-Ra stirred the tomato soup. Sav put his dinner bowl on his head and orange goo smeared into his hair. Then he flung the bowl at Mumm-Ra and a splattery streak went up the back of her scrubs. Hell’s teeth, she said, without turning round. Sort him out will you, Jem. Your gran’ll be back soon. But it’s Saturday, Jem wanted to say. She didn’t say it because Mumm-Ra turned round and gave her a look that involved not blinking and the kitchen light dimmed a bit. Mumm-Ra could sense things coming like a dog could. She took the soup upstairs on a tray.
*
Jem decided that when Sav was having his after-lunch nap, she’d go out again and see what was happening. Sav was a good sleeper, an hour at least – you could stick pins in his forehead and he wouldn’t wake up. He wouldn’t be left alone really if there was an emergency; Mumm-Ra would be in the house. If Gran arrived, Jem could say she’d had to nip to the chemist for some more of something. That seemed sensible. She was always being told how sensible she was. It was annoying, especially as she was only just not eleven anymore. Today she wanted to see what was going on, like everyone else. The baby and the dog would probably even be on the news.
She did Sav a nappy in the bathroom and put Vaseline on his bum, shielding herself from a wee spout with a towel. He loved weeing when his nappy was off. Men loved weeing up against trees and in the underpass and in the park and they started very young. Jem was getting good at nappies. She could do them much faster than Mumm-Ra. It was mostly Gran and Jem that looked after Sav though so there was plenty of practice. Jem put the dirty cloth in the dirties basket, which was getting full. The nappy man came on Sunday nights and Wednesday nights, but Sav had gone through quite a few with a bout of something runny. The nappy man was a stupid old-fashioned person and it was embarrassing to have to open the front door to him, hand over a smelly bundle, and get a clean bundle back. Even though a lot of people were using disposables, he was still in business. Mumm-Ra said disposables were expensive and it was better to keep a person in work. She snapped at Jem when Jem asked who made the disposable ones then? Why do you have to be so contrary, madam? Contrary.
Jem hated the nappy man, partly because what kind of man wanted to wash poo for a living, partly because he had a van that said Mr Nippy Nappy Man on the side like a giveaway, but mostly because he had a funny eye. He had an eye with a golden gash in it, like a gold disease of some kind. The eye didn’t move about much. His other eye was blue and normal. She sometimes wondered who had the worst job, the nappy man or Mumm-Ra. Mumm-Ra, probably.
Jem carried Sav back to the bedroom, got his library books out then sat on the beanbag to read to him. He squirmed into position in her lap and she fended off his pointy elbows and heels. Moon, he said. Sav was heavy and half her size already, who knew how because he didn’t eat anything. Moon, he said. What about Ant and Bee? Jem asked. She hated Goodnight Moon. The colours were horrible. The little rabbity creature in pyjamas was horrible. The strange page near the end was extremely horrible. It gave her the same feeling as jumping down off somewhere high, or looking up at the sky for too long. She tried to slip the book under the beanbag but Sav spotted the cover. He scrambled to get it, took hold of Jem’s hand and made her hold it. Moon! OK, OK, mister.
She let him turn the pages as she read. Sav pointed items out in a slow, serious way as she said the words – toy house, mouse, comb, brush, bowlful of mush, quiet old lady whispering hush. She tried to flip ahead to the end of the book, past the weirdest bit, but Sav wedged his podgy fist between the pages so she couldn’t avoid seeing
Goodnight nobody
Sav turned and looked up at her, frowning. He didn’t understand, but neither did Jem. Who was nobody? Was nobody actually somebody, a person there but not-there in the room? Could the rabbity creature see nobody from its bed? That was like a ghost story for babies, which was very wrong. And if it was a joke she didn’t get it, because it wasn’t funny. It was exactly the opposite of funny, and opposites always created problems. The opposite of married. The opposite of love. The opposite of alive. She nudged her brother and blew on the back of his head. He smelled of milk and potato and nappy detergent. Come on, she said, turn the page, Sav. Sav turned the page. Jem read to the end of the book, then tried to lift him up and put him in his cot, but he grabbed her T-shirt and barnacled to her. Moooon!
After three more Goodnight Moons he let her put him down. He shuffled about, stuck his legs through the bars of the cot, kicked, yawned, then rolled onto his stomach and went to sleep immediately, as if someone had unplugged him. Under the sticky orange, his hair was thick and dark. He looked nice when he slept, Jem thought, loose and soft, not like the Lego-hurling, crusty-nosed monster he normally was. Sav always wanted things doing for him and showing to him. Being the one who knew more was hard work; she often didn’t like it. Maybe he dreamt of Yugoslavia when he slept. Maybe he dreamt of his dad, though he’d never met him, and his dad might be dead. Could you dream of a place or a person you’d never known? Gran said Sav would have a lot of questions when he was older.
Jem put a blanket over him. She thought about going outside. She thought about the little baby, lying in the basket, and pictured its neck like a chewed-on dog’s bone. Mumm-Ra’s bedroom door was shut. Silence and darkness behind it, like the Black Pyramid. Jem went downstairs and turned on the TV, but there was only motor racing on, flimsy cars on a noisy, skidding track. She got her book out and sat at the kitchen table.
*
The street was quiet by the time Gran arrived, just a few people coming back from the city with carrier bags and their hoods up. Drizzle had started. The police van wasn’t there anymore. The dog had probably been taken away. Mumm-Ra had already gone back to work and wouldn’t be home until morning. When she’d left the house she was pig-eyed and late and on the point of being extremely cross because she couldn’t find her keys. She’d forgotten her box of sandwiches on the kitchen counter – she ate sandwiches for dinner at work as if it were lunchtime. Things always felt topsy-turvy when Mumm-Ra was on night shifts.
Jem walked down the cut between houses, to the football field, and along the backs of the yards. There were empty crisp packets skittering about, a flat, dented football. The back gate of the man’s house was battered and blistered. There was police tape across it – the only sign anything terrible had happened there. Jem could smell dinners cooking, crispy pancakes and meat and gravy. She could smell rain on the bricks. People were inside waiting for the evening news. The baby might have a name and it would be announced. Could you name a baby after it was dead? Or maybe they’d use an initial, like the little girl who had gone missing from the park last year. Baby R. Rebecca, Jem had guessed, or Rachel. Gran was making cauliflower cheese for their di
nner, which Jem didn’t like because the cauliflower was usually soggy and the sauce always had flour-lumps and hardly any cheese. Gran would ask her about boys at school, which was embarrassing. Anyone look like that lovely Lion-y character? Jem never corrected her.
Mortuary. Decapitated. When you thought things, like words, it was because there was a voice inside your head that said the thoughts. Jem hadn’t realized that before. The voice wasn’t exactly your voice, but it wasn’t anyone else’s.
There was no point hanging around outside by herself. She walked back along the yard walls. If she were friends with Deborah she could go and knock on her door and ask if anything else had happened. Deborah’s door was white plastic. In the upstairs window – Deborah’s bedroom, maybe – was an A-ha poster. She could imagine Deborah’s face when the door opened, a big how-dare-you sneer. The rules would definitely be back by now. Off on your own, duck-fuck? Where’s your Yoogi brother?
Jem looked at her watch, which was blue leather and quite nice, a birthday present from Martin last year. He’d forgotten her actual birthday and had given the watch a week late. Overcompensation, Mumm-Ra said. It was quarter past five. She was supposed to be back by six. Sometimes Martin came to see her on Saturday afternoons for tea but not every Saturday. Jem didn’t have Martin’s surname, Steele, which he complained about, but it was too late now. He didn’t have any other children – none that he admitted to, Gran said. Steele would have been a good surname. Martin was the only other person Jem knew who liked Thundercats. He watched a lot of television, even cartoons; he said cartoons were ace and philosophical. Thundercats hasn’t caught on yet, he told her once. They’re all too different from each other, too distinct. But they have the same emblems, she’d said, and they all follow the code of Thundera. Not the same as a uniform, he’d said.