Anywhere's Better Than Here

by Zöe Venditozzi

  ‘‘Hello, it’s me, Edward.’’

  He was her only child and yet every time he called her, he still felt the need to identify himself. Laurie shook her head.

  ‘‘I thought I might come and visit you.’’ His voice caught on might. ‘‘Today. Now actually.’’ She could hear him throw his rucksack on to his shoulder. ‘‘I’m leaving the flat now.’’

  Laurie held her breath until Ed spoke again.

  ‘‘No, it’s just me.’’

  It was obvious that Sandy was asking Ed questions.

  ‘‘It’s okay mum, I know. Listen …’’ he paused. ‘‘Is it okay if I stay for a couple of nights?’’

  He said this more quietly and Laurie wrapped the quilt around her head so that he wouldn’t hear her crying and come back.

  Early Doors

  Bright but Nippy

  By mid morning, things looked better. It was one of those sharp sunny days that happen in December. Super cold, but sparkly, making her feel metallic and invincible. After Ed had left and she’d showered, she started to feel better. And now, with her hair still damp, she took a good lung full of air and began to walk into town. The streets were deserted and Laurie felt as if she had the world to herself. Without the camouflage of other people around Laurie looked at everything afresh, as if she’d been away somewhere. It was a revelation to see how shops had opened and closed, bus stops had appeared, graffiti had been graffitied over.

  She paused to look at the wall by the bus station. It used to have an image of a busty manga-type girl holding a gun. Now someone had drawn on what was either a mask and cape or a badly drawn burqa. The gun had been painted over with a massive book and the words, ‘‘change is coming’’ was written in capitals on the book’s cover. Laurie chose to take it as a good sign and went and sat down on a bench in the stance. The time on the information screen read 8.37.

  The only other people around were an old couple sitting on a bench directly underneath an electric bar fire that hung from the roof. They were reading separate copies of the Sunday Post. Laurie moved to the bench across from them.

  The couple were both wearing massive fleecy jackets, each decorated with a print of a husky or a wolf or something. Laurie couldn’t tell exactly what it was. Some sort of big dog anyway. Hers was shades of beige and his was shades of grey. They had big home knit hats on as well and, although they looked fairly silly, they also looked really warm and Laurie regretted her choice of jacket but no jumper over her shirt. She pushed her hands into her pockets and shuffled down into the neck of her coat.

  ‘‘Says here that an elderly Scottish woman’s holiday turned into a nightmare when she fell down the stairs of a museum in Spain and injured her leg.’’ The man said to the woman.

  ‘‘Oh dear, that’s not so nice, is it?’’ said the woman, glancing up from her paper.

  ‘‘Apparently, she was on a coach tour with some other women from her village when she took the tumble requiring 56 stitches and a night in hospital.’’ He held the paper down across his knees. ‘‘Here, you don’t think that’s Irene’s tour do you?’’

  ‘‘Ooh well, let’s see. She’s been away five days.’’ She put her newspaper down on her knee and spread the fingers of her left hand out in front of her. She began to count off the fingers. ‘‘Salamanca, Madrid, Barcelona, Seville, oh and not forgetting the night in London before they flew into Spain. Where did it happen Jim?’’

  The man scanned the article again. ‘‘Mmm, let’s see … Andorra.’’

  ‘‘Andorra?’’

  ‘‘Yes, Andorra.’’

  ‘‘Is Andorra even in Spain?’’

  ‘‘I’m not sure. Well, it must be, it’s in the Sunday Post.’’

  The woman frowned, unconvinced.

  ‘‘Anyway, I don’t think it’s Irene’s trip. What’s the woman called?’’

  He consulted the paper again.

  ‘‘Janet McCraig.’’

  ‘‘Janet McCraig.’’ The woman repeated and then sat thinking for a minute. ‘‘No. I don’t know her and I don’t remember Irene mentioning any Janet McCraig.’’

  They both looked back at their papers and fell silent again. Laurie couldn’t see herself sitting with Ed on a bench in a bus station in fifty years. She couldn’t see herself with anyone, anywhere in fifty years.

  She thought of Ed’s auntie Sheila. Perhaps Laurie’s life would turn out like Sheila’s. Sheila travelled and sang in a covers band at the weekends. After a couple of glasses of wine at Ed’s 21st, Sheila had confided that she couldn’t understand her sister’s lack of drive. She said that Sandy had been different before she met Ed’s dad but that after she married she stayed in her house as much as possible and all but lost contact with her own family. It was Sheila that had kept phoning and visiting and she said that sometimes she felt as if Ed’s mum wouldn’t be too bothered if she didn’t call again.

  Maybe Ed would talk to his auntie Sheila while he was staying at his mum’s. Maybe she’d encourage him to spread his wings a bit. Laurie knew she should be feeling happier, but she didn’t know how she felt. The sight of him playing on the computer when she came home from work never failed to set her teeth on edge and clutch her bag as tightly as she’d like to wring his neck, but the thought of coming home to darkness and silence was not appealing to her. Too much like coming home from school to an empty house and hours to fill before everyone else was back from work or clubs or friend’s houses. She couldn’t really be bothered to speak to Ed when she was at home, but being on her own was worse. She feared finding herself talking out loud in partial sentences and re-arguing ancient arguments with herself in mirrors.

  What did other adults do? According to TV there were loads of girls her age going to work, coming home, cooking, getting dressed in nice gear and going out again to meet lots of similarly happy girls and guys. She just couldn’t see herself doing that – organising a social life, caring about it. Besides, how do you organise a social life if you work the night shift? That was assuming she stayed in the cleaning job. It was ridiculous really, she had a degree – why was she even considering staying in a cleaning job? She could do all sorts of other jobs that paid far better and had sociable hours. But these jobs came with responsibilities; meetings; paperwork; suits; lots of other people. Not yet, not for a while. There was no hurry, was there?

  She watched the number 22 pull in. She had no need to catch a bus to get to where Gerry lived and she’d almost be there by now if she’d just walked. But she wanted someone else to move her along today.

  She stood up and smiled at the old couple. The man immediately snapped his eyes back down to his paper. The woman blinked slowly back at Laurie.

  Sunday the 19th of December

  Still Early

  Sudden Cold Fronts

  ‘‘He’s no in.’’

  Laurie ignored the rough looking woman who had appeared from downstairs as she raised her hand to knock on Gerry’s door.

  ‘‘Ah said, he’s no in!’’

  ‘‘I heard you, but I’d rather see for myself.’’ She knocked again.

  Gerry opened the door, clearly trying to look as if he’d just woken up.

  Laurie stood on his step with her back to the other woman who was leaning against the banister at the top of the flight of stairs. Laurie could feel her scowling.

  ‘‘Alright?’’ said Gerry to the women, as he pretended to wipe sleep from his eyes.

  Laurie looked over her shoulder. The woman from downstairs swept her eyes from Gerry’s face to his groin and back again, the scowl never changing shape, flicked her head up at him by way of greeting and thumped back down the stairs, her house coat trailing behind her.

  Laurie raised an eyebrow. Gerry took her by the shoulder and pulled her into the flat and shut the door behind her. They stood facing each other for a second, neither quite sure what to do next, before leaning into each other and kissing. This time it was smoother, more coordinated. Laurie was more familiar with the
shape of his face, the workings of his tongue. Before Gerry she’d never kissed someone with a beard. Gerry was her first man, really.

  She pressed up against him, feeling herself getting carried away. Gerry gripped her tightly and then lifted her up to him like a child and carried her to the bedroom. He lowered her on to the bed and stood looking down on her as she wiggled backwards further up the bed.

  ‘‘Hi.’’ He smiled at her.

  As he stood over her she felt herself start to shiver. ‘‘Are you okay with this?’’ asked Gerry, frowning at her.

  ‘‘I’m okay. Honestly.’’ Her teeth chattered

  Gerry shook his head.

  ‘‘Not unless you’re totally into it, Laurie.’’ He sat down on the bed. ‘‘It’s too weird otherwise.’’

  ‘‘It’s just,’’ She sat up properly. ‘‘I’m not not into it, I’m just nervous.’’ She felt herself start to get angry. At this point with Ed she’d crank up the insults, see what she could do to rile him, but the sight of Gerry shut her up. Her anger evaporated.

  ‘‘Come on, let’s go and get some food,’’ said Gerry, pulling her to her feet. He gave her a hug then put his arm around her shoulder and steered her towards the doorway.

  ‘‘Hang on a minute.’’ She stepped over to the chest of drawers. On top of it was a picture of Gerry, much younger, in an army uniform. She turned to face him, confused by the photo. This didn’t fit her image of him.

  ‘‘Long time ago,’’ said Gerry, pulling on her arm. ‘‘Come on, I’m starving.’’

  Ten-ish

  Clouding Over

  ‘‘Tony’s Diner’’ was how Laurie imagined Russia pre-Gorbachev. It had it all: wood panelling, sepia effect Americana posters and the radio playing hits from the sixties. A few cheap looking Christmas decorations were scattered about and a limp Christmas tree stood in a corner with a fall of needles all around it on the floor. Nine or ten ornaments were grouped together around the upper branches and a lop-sided angel drooped over the sorry mess.

  The cafe had about twenty tables, most of which were taken by a cavalcade of poor-looking locals. The table next to them held three old women with hardly a full set of teeth between them. They were taking turns feeding an ugly square-headed baby chips from their plates. It gummed the yellow pieces whilst making a groo noise. There was something repellent about the baby and as it rolled its greedy eyes in Laurie’s direction she considered telling Gerry she’d rather go elsewhere. But Gerry was smiling at the depressed waitress as she ambled over to their table and before Laurie knew it, he’d ordered them both cooked breakfasts.

  Gerry and Laurie sat in silence and looked around. The walls were covered in blackboards displaying menu items. Laurie scanned fruitlessly for spelling mistakes or unnecessary apostrophes but there weren’t any. Mind you, how hard was it to get egg and chips wrong? But she’d seen it done, more times than she’d cared to. The menu held all the usual suspects: pie and chips, bridie and chips, macaroni cheese and chips, sausage and chips. So many chips.

  ‘‘Do beans count as vegetables?’’ Laurie asked Gerry.

  ‘‘No, I don’t think so. But there is a healthy choice on the menu if that’s what you’re worried about.’’

  Laurie laughed. ‘‘Oh yeah, what?’’

  Gerry pointed to the wall above the stage-like serving area. On it was another blackboard advertising a steakwich salad roll.

  ‘‘Only £2.95. Bargain!’’ Laurie laughed. ‘‘What is a steakwich? And what do you think Tony’s interpretation of a salad consists of?’’

  Gerry considered for a moment.

  ‘‘Iceberg, one piece of. Two slices of tomato. One slice of cucumber. If it’s a really healthy salad.’’

  Laurie looked around herself again. She felt like a fraud.

  ‘‘What are we doing?’’

  Gerry reached across and squeezed her hand. ‘‘Nothing much – just having a bit of breakfast, hanging about a bit.’’

  Laurie blew air through her nose.

  ‘‘Look at that guy there.’’ She nodded at a man in his forties or fifties – it was hard to tell – who was dressed in a camouflage jacket and trousers. He appeared to be wearing some sort of green netting around his neck as a scarf. He was reading the paper and sipping occasionally from a mug.

  ‘‘Why?’’ asked Gerry.

  ‘‘I dunno, he’s just piqued my interest. He’s all dressed for a war or something. Why do people wear things like that? Why wear a uniform if you aren’t in the army?’’

  ‘‘Comfort? Preparedness?’’ Gerry shrugged. ‘‘Less to think about in the morning?’’

  Laurie thought back to the picture in Gerry’s bedroom. She waited for a second and cleared her throat. Jesus, why was she so nervous all of a sudden?

  ‘‘Were you in the army for long?’’

  He straightened. ‘‘A bit, yeah.’’ He frowned down at the formica table top. He didn’t want to talk about it.

  ‘‘Why did you leave? Why did you join?’’ She laughed but Gerry wasn’t amused. He picked at the cuticles on his left thumb with his index finger and shrugged.

  ‘‘Steady job. I didn’t know what else to do.’’ Maybe he’d seen himself as some sort of humble hero – a saver of women and children, who’d remember him forever, Laurie thought. Maybe this guy had the same fantasies.

  The hacked-off waitress approached their table carrying two steaming plates. She was wearing a badge that read, ‘‘I’ve been kissing Santa Claus’’.

  ‘‘Here ye are,’’ she said, putting the plates down firmly on the formica. Suddenly she smiled moonily at Gerry. ‘‘Would you like any sauce?’’

  ‘‘No thanks,’’ said Laurie, but the waitress only had eyes for Gerry. She smiled at him again.

  ‘‘Tomato please.’’

  ‘‘Coming right up,’’ said the waitress and bounded off to the kitchen.

  ‘‘You’ve an admirer!’’ Laurie was inexplicably irritated.

  ‘‘I seem to bring it out in older ladies.’’

  ‘‘So you do!’’ said Laurie, thinking of Gerry’s neighbour and the barmaid in the pub. ‘‘Maybe they want to mother you. I can understand that,’’ she smiled at Gerry, then glanced away, embarrassed.

  ‘‘Come on,’’ Gerry picked up his fork and waved it over her fry up. ‘‘Tuck in, before it gets cold.’’

  The food was piled up on the plate shining greasily under the strip lights. She poked the yolk of the egg with her fork and took a deep breath. No, not the egg first. She speared the piece of Lorne sausage which resembled a cross section of brain, ready to be examined. She put it down again, scraping it off her fork with the side of the plate. There were some cold-looking beans, half a dozen pensioner-grey mushrooms, a shrivelled piece of half burnt bacon and two pieces of fried bread which looked to be more oil than bread.

  ‘‘What’s wrong? Not hungry?’’ asked Gerry, a laden fork half way up to his mouth. His lips had a shimmery layer of grease on them and Laurie imagined herself kissing him and looked away quickly.

  She shrugged. She could feel her jaw tightening up and her tongue lying dully against the bottom of her mouth. She couldn’t think of a single thing to say, or rather, she could think of several polite, acceptable things to say but knew she wouldn’t be able to force the words out. She cast around the room for a distraction. Everywhere she looked she could see food. The old lady sitting behind them was cutting up egg and chips for her Down’s Syndrome son. She looked up at Laurie and gave her a big, gappy smile and still Laurie couldn’t force herself to get it together. God, if that woman could do it, why couldn’t she?

  What did she have to complain about? She was perfectly healthy, had a job, somewhere to live, a boyfriend, and another man interested. And what was she doing? Hanging about in a shitty cafe feeling sorry for herself. Pathetic. Her eyes filled up with tears and she felt like punching herself in the face. Plus, here she was with someone who’d really been somewhere … and seen something �
��

  Gerry started to reach across the table to her but she moved her hand quickly away and looked over his shoulder to the window. It was grey outside and looked like it might rain. Typical. Why didn’t they get snow anymore? It was only a week until Christmas, but it felt more like November. Nothing was how it was supposed to be.

  It hadn’t been for ages.

  Tuesday the 21st of December

  Lunchtime

  Foggy at Times

  ‘‘What about Christmas?’’

  Laurie was standing at the window spying on the downstairs neighbours unloading shopping bags from their car. She peeled up a flap of the woodchip by the window frame.

  ‘‘Dunno.’’ Ed sounded hopeless.

  Laurie glanced over at him. He was hunched over on the bed, his rucksack torn open beside him with his neatly ironed clothes teetering over. She wanted to go over and stuff them back in so they didn’t come into contact with the manky bedclothes. She could just picture Ed’s mum standing sorting and ironing in front of the telly, wishing Ed had a decent girlfriend who’d do the laundry instead. No, actually, she’d be loving that Ed had gone back home and probably begged him to stay for good. Back in his old room, under his old grunge posters, under his old red and black striped duvet, under his mummy’s roof.

  Looking at Ed now, Laurie couldn’t work out why he’d come back. He looked as if he’d been crying. If he had been half as evasive as she’d been, she would have gone straight off, not go home for a few days and then walk back in, tail between the legs. She realised she was staring at him and turned to the street again. Why couldn’t she just say something?

  Ed cleared his throat. ‘‘What do you want to do about Christmas? Are you going home?’’