Lifesaving for Beginners

by Ciara Geraghty

  I look out of the window of the bus. London gets busier and busier the closer you get. Much busier than Brighton. Mam said she liked Brighton because it was beside the sea and it reminded her of home. She still called Ireland home, even though we’ve lived in Brighton for years. Since I was a baby.

  We are on a road with lots of traffic. I read all the ads at each bus stop, to pass the time. Faith is still texting.

  I say, ‘Are we there yet?’

  She says, ‘Do we look like we’re there yet?’ Faith’s accent gets really Irish when she’s cross. It’s because she was born when Mam and Dad still lived in Ireland.

  Faith doesn’t look like me, or Ant or Adrian either. Damo looks exactly like Imelda but don’t ever say that to him because he’ll give you a dead arm and a wedgie if you do. Faith has black hair and green eyes and white skin. Mrs Barber says she looks a bit like Diana, who happens to be Mrs Barber’s cat. She calls her Diana after Princess Diana, who got killed in a car crash too. The cat is huge and very old. Faith doesn’t look anything like Diana, except for her green eyes and black hair. Rob thinks Faith is beautiful. He’s always saying stuff like that to her. He tells her she looks amazing, right in front of people.

  Reading the ads at the bus stops is starting to make me feel a bit sick so I have to stop.

  I say, ‘When will we be there?’

  Faith says, ‘Soon.’

  ‘You said that the last time.’

  ‘Knock it off, Milo.’

  ‘I’m hungry.’

  ‘Here, have a banana.’

  ‘I don’t want a banana.’

  ‘If you were hungry enough, you’d have a banana.’ Sometimes Faith sounds exactly like Mam.

  I blow on the window of the bus until it clouds up. Then I draw a picture with my finger. Me with my life jacket on. I don’t have a life jacket, but next summer – if Faith lets me – my class is going to do some training on the beach instead of at the pool and Coach says you have to wear a life jacket. Life jackets make you look a lot bigger than you really are.

  ‘Where are we going anyway?’

  ‘I already told you.’

  ‘You said an office.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Whose office?’

  ‘No one you know.’

  ‘Why are we going to an office?’

  Faith throws her phone into her bag and zips it up, really quickly. I can’t see her face anymore because her hands are covering it.

  ‘I’m sorry, Faith. I won’t ask you any more questions, I swear.’ It’s horrible when girls cry. Boys aren’t supposed to cry but sometimes it’s hard not to. Even Ant and Adrian cried. So did Dad.

  I pull one of her hands away from her face. Actually, she’s not crying. She’s just tired, I think. But her hand is freezing. I put it between mine and rub, the way Mam used to do. She said Faith had cold hands because of the cigarettes. She said that Faith had poor circulation and that she shouldn’t smoke, because people who have poor circulation die if they smoke too many cigarettes.

  Faith smiles. Her teeth are white but Mam said they will turn as yellow as mustard if she doesn’t stop smoking.

  She’ll be dead and she’ll have yellow teeth and I’ll probably have to go to Scotland and live with Dad, and Celia will make me call her ‘Mum’, and they’ll be too busy with the brand-new baby to bring me to a lifesaving class and I’ll never see Damo or Carla again.

  Faith says, ‘Thanks.’

  I say, ‘It says “Smokers Die Younger” on your cigarette pack. Did you know that?’

  ‘I’m not going to die, Milo.’

  ‘Are we nearly there?’

  This time, she says, ‘Nearly.’

  The office is in a gigantic building that is like a skyscraper in a movie. There is a man in it and his name is Jonathon. He crouches in front of me and asks if I would like a colouring book and some crayons. I shake my head and Faith gives me her iPod. I listen to her band. They’re called ‘Four Men and a Woman’. The woman is Faith.

  Faith and Jonathon talk for ages. Jonathon has a big folder on his desk with lots of papers in it. He lifts the lid of his laptop. Types his username with two fingers. Presses Tab. Then types his password with two fingers. Presses Enter.

  Faith takes some pages out and she keeps shaking her head. Reading and shaking her head. I turn the volume down on the iPod in case she says anything about me.

  ‘It’s a lot to take in, Faith,’ Jonathon is saying. He is one of those people who stare into your eyes all the time when they’re talking to you.

  ‘It’s a big shock, Faith,’ Jonathon is saying. He is one of those people who say your name all the time.

  ‘It’s not uncommon, Faith,’ Jonathon is saying.

  ‘It happens quite a lot.’ Jonathon is one of those people who always have to be saying something. Staring into people’s eyes and saying their names and talking, talking, talking nonstop.

  Faith looks at the pages in the folder and shakes her head.

  ‘And you and your . . . adoptive mother . . .’ says Jonathon, staring at Faith’s eyes. ‘Were you . . . close?’

  Faith looks up and she looks mad, like when she was on the bus and I kept asking her if we were there yet. Adults don’t mind long journeys but I like to know when things are going to end.

  ‘Apparently not as close as I thought.’ Her face is turning pink. Mam used to say, ‘Watch out,’ when Faith’s face turned pink. Mam called it her ‘peevish’ face.

  Jonathon has flecks of dandruff on his jacket. It looks a bit like snow. He takes a huge hanky from his pocket and blows his nose into it. ‘Sorry,’ he says to Faith. He doesn’t say sorry to me. I bet he’d like to French-kiss Faith.

  I cough, so he knows I’m here and he won’t try any funny business. He looks at me then. ‘Would you like a glass of water, young man?’ I pretend not to hear him because of the iPod. He gets up from his chair and walks round to the side of the desk where Faith is. He sits on the edge.

  ‘OK, Faith, all right,’ he says, as if he’s agreeing with something Faith has said. ‘Yes, we can make some enquiries. Yes, we can send out a letter, Faith. Yes, we can probably find your birth mother.’ I can tell by her face that Faith hates the way Jonathon keeps on saying her name, over and over again. ‘But the question you need to ask yourself is why.’

  ‘Why?’ Faith says. I’m glad because that’s what I would have said.

  Jonathon sighs and smiles and presses his hands together like he’s saying his prayers.

  ‘Yes, Faith. Why? Why do you want to find her? What is it you are looking for? Have you asked yourself any of these questions, Faith?’

  Faith stands up and moves as far away from Jonathon as she can get without leaving the room.

  ‘I would have thought that was pretty obvious,’ she says.

  Jonathon is still smiling but now he is nodding too. ‘Humour me, Faith,’ he says. ‘Tell me why.’

  ‘Because . . . because . . . I just . . . I want to see her. I want to know what happened. I want to know why.’ Faith glances at me but I close my eyes and tap my foot against the floor, as if to the beat of ‘Dreams in the Daytime’, which is my favourite song. It’s the one that Faith sings the best. She looks at Jonathon again. ‘This is going to sound weird but . . .’

  Jonathon nods. ‘Go on, Faith.’ He can’t keep his gob shut for longer than two seconds, I swear.

  Faith says, ‘I find it really hard to believe.’

  Even though Jonathon is nodding, he says, ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean . . . Dad said it was true. I saw the paperwork myself. The adoption certificate or whatever it’s called. You’ve even got a file on me, for Christ’s sake.’

  Jonathon nods away.

  ‘But . . . I don’t know . . . it’s . . . it doesn’t seem real.’

  Jonathon smiles and nods and nods and smiles. He looks like the dogs in the back window of Mrs Barber’s car. They start nodding the minute the car starts moving.

  F
aith says, ‘That’s why I have to see her. To make sure.’ Faith looks at Jonathon but she doesn’t nod or smile. She looks pretty cool for an adult. She wears boots that are called Doc Martens. They’re new but they look old because she got Rob to run over them a few times in his van.

  Jonathon smiles and nods and then he says, ‘OK.’

  And before he can say anything else, Faith says, ‘How long will it take?’

  Jonathon says, ‘It depends.’

  Faith says, ‘On what?’

  Jonathon says, ‘On when she responds to my letter. Or if she responds to my letter.’

  Faith says, ‘How many letters do you send?’

  Jonathon says, ‘Usually three. The third one is registered.’

  Faith nods but she doesn’t smile.

  Jonathon tries to ruffle my hair when I’m leaving the office but I duck and he misses.

  The phone rings and I pick it up and say, ‘Yes?’ like I usually do, except there’s nobody there. I can’t hear anyone but I can sense someone. I don’t say anything. I just wait. But the person who I can sense says nothing and I hang up. I’m still standing beside the phone when it rings again. This time, I pick it up and say nothing.

  It’s Brona. She says, ‘Hello?’

  I say, ‘Hi, Brona.’

  ‘What would you like for your birthday?’

  ‘It’s not my birthday till January.’ I’m hanging onto thirty-nine with my fingernails, which I happen to bite most of the time.

  ‘Well, Christmas, then. What would you like for Christmas?’

  ‘Don’t mention the C-word.’

  ‘Someone sounds like they need a little cheering up.’

  ‘Did you just phone here?’

  ‘Yes, of course I did.’

  ‘No, I mean before. Just a minute ago.’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘Someone phoned.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘It’s probably nothing. I was just wondering . . . has anyone been asking about me recently?’

  Brona laughs and says, ‘My precious girl, everyone asks about you. You’re the darling of the publishing world, you know that.’

  ‘No, I mean anything . . . unusual. Lately. Anything a bit . . . I don’t know, out of the ordinary.’

  ‘No, nothing strange. What’s going on, Kat? You’re starting to worry me.’

  ‘Is your office door locked? Right now? While you’re on the phone to me?’

  ‘Of course it is. I always lock it before I ring you, you know that.’

  ‘And when you’re not in the office . . . do you still lock your office door when you’re not there?’

  ‘Kat, you know how cautious myself and Jeremy are when it comes to you. What’s this about?’

  ‘It’s probably nothing, it’s just I’ve had a few calls lately. You know, when you pick up and no one’s there? Except there is someone there. I’m sure of it.’

  ‘You think someone’s found out?’

  ‘No. But last week, I picked up the phone and a man said, “Is Killian there?” and I said, “No,” and he just hung up.’

  ‘Well, that sounds like it was just a wrong number.’

  ‘Yes, but the name.’

  ‘Lots of people are called Killian.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s a bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m sure that’s all it is, Kat. A coincidence.’

  ‘What about the dropped calls?’

  ‘It’s probably kids.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Nothing to worry yourself about.’

  ‘Maybe not . . .’

  Brona says, ‘So . . .’

  I say nothing. I know what’s coming.

  After a while, Brona says, ‘What’s the gorgeous Declan Darker up to these days?’

  ‘You know I don’t like talking about him over the phone.’

  ‘Come on, Kat, it’s just me. You’re being paranoid.’

  ‘Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean your phone’s not bugged.’

  ‘Look, the last thing I want to do is put you under pressure but, as you know, there’s a heck of a lot of interest in this one. More than usual, I mean.’

  Brona is the only person I know who can get away with saying ‘heck’. For a publishing phenomenon – that’s how they described her in Hello! – there’s something a little old fashioned about her. Like, if she wore a gingham apron in her kitchen and went ahead and made bread and butter pudding, nobody’d bat an eyelid. It could be her hair. It never moves. It looks like it’s been set, like a trifle.

  I say, ‘Why?’ I know why but I’m buying time.

  ‘The tenth Darker novel? DreamWorks are already chomping at the bit for a preview. Clooney has refuted allegations that he’s too old to play Darker. Looks like the studio’ll have a catfight on their hands between himself and Matt Damon for the job. Either way, it’s a winning combination for us, am I right? Gallons of other stuff too. There’s an app in development. Merchandising is going to town. There’s talk of a special-edition packet of Durex.’

  ‘Declan Darker doesn’t use condoms.’

  ‘That’s not the point.’

  I wait for her to tell me what the point is.

  ‘The point is, it’s ready, steady, go here and I’m just wondering . . . you know . . . when we can expect delivery.’

  This is not the usual kind of conversation I have with Brona. For starters, she hardly ever rings me. I ring her. From payphones, mostly. Just in case. And if she ever does ring me, it’s never to ask about delivery. There’s never been any need. Before now.

  I ring her. I tell her when the manuscript will be ready. Set up the drop. That’s what Brona calls it. The drop. She thinks it’s funny. Over the top. Not that she’d say it. But I know she thinks it all the same.

  Because nobody knows who I am, there’s no need for her to ring me to talk about launches or press releases or interviews or magazine articles or appearances on cheesy chat shows, thank Christ.

  When I don’t answer immediately, Brona presses on.

  ‘We’ve been thinking . . .’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Relax. Just me and Jeremy.’ Jeremy is Brona’s boss and the only other person in the publishing house who knows. Jeremy partly owns the company. Mostly owns it now, I suppose, since his father died. People say ‘died’ but the truth is he was killed by a Wii. Collapsed when he was doing a Wii Fit slalom jump. Which adds further weight to my hypothesis about the dangers of physical exercise.

  He left Jeremy everything. Even the Wii. Brona says he never uses it.

  I say, ‘I don’t like the sound of this.’

  ‘At least hear me out.’

  ‘No.’

  Brona ignores me. ‘This is the tenth book. It’s time for the fans to meet the writer. It’s time to unveil Killian Kobain.’

  I didn’t come up with that name, obviously. Killian Kobain. Brona calls it her ‘brainchild’. Publishers are mad about alliteration.

  I say, ‘No.’

  Brona says, ‘Why not?’

  ‘For starters, Killian Kobain is a recluse, remember?’

  ‘Yes, but maybe he feels differently now.’

  ‘He doesn’t.’

  ‘The tenth book, Kat. We could have a ball. Spill the beans. The journos would lap it up. The publicity would be gigantic.’

  ‘There’s enough publicity.’

  ‘There’s no such thing as enough publicity.’

  ‘No. I’m not doing it.’

  ‘Come on. It’ll cheer up Jeremy.’

  ‘What’s wrong with Jeremy?’

  ‘Harold broke up with him.’

  ‘Harold’s always breaking up with him.’

  ‘No, he means it this time. He moved out. Just before Jeremy’s birthday. He’d promised Jeremy a trip to Tuscany. They were going to do this Italian cookery course. Now Jeremy’s on his own, having Findus Crispy Pancakes for
his breakfast, lunch and dinner, from the looks of his recycling bin.’

  ‘Poor Jeremy.’

  Brona pounces on my moment of empathy. ‘Yes, Kat, that’s precisely why we need to go all out for this launch. It would give darling Jeremy such a lift.’

  ‘I’ll send him flowers.’

  ‘At least say you’ll think about it?’

  ‘Roses. Yellow ones. They’ll do the trick.’

  ‘Listen, I’ll call you next week and see where you are with the manuscript and we can talk some more about the launch, OK?’

  ‘Can we talk about something else?’ I haven’t written anything in months but I’m not ready to let Brona know that yet.

  ‘Of course. How are you?’

  ‘Grand.’

  But she knows me too well. She says, ‘Tell Brona what’s the matter. Is it Thomas? Has he been in touch at all?’

  ‘He has a new girlfriend,’ I say and I am appalled to hear a crack in my voice. A sliver of a crack but a crack all the same.

  Brona says, ‘Gosh. That’s terrible news. Are you all right?’

  ‘Of course I’m all right. I just . . . it’s weird thinking about him with someone else, that’s all.’

  Brona says, ‘I’m sure Thomas and this woman aren’t serious. It’s just a rebound thing. I’m certain of it. He was mad about you.’ And there it is. The past tense. It still sounds strange.

  ‘She’s young, of course.’

  ‘How young?’

  ‘Thirty-six.’

  ‘That’s only four years younger than you.’

  ‘Three and three-quarters.’ I’m not forty yet, dammit.

  ‘Exactly. That’s nothing.’

  ‘He went out with her before.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘For three years.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Why do you keep saying, “Oh”?’

  ‘Do I? Gosh, I’m sorry, I’m just . . . I’m listening. Go on.’

  ‘You think it’s bad, don’t you? That he went out with her before? For three years?’

  ‘No. Of course not.’

  ‘She’s at that very susceptible child-bearing age,’ I say.

  ‘Physiologically speaking,’ begins Brona, ‘the optimal child-bearing age is eighteen.’