* * *
‘It smells horrible in here,’ said Carly as she walked in at the end of the morning. ‘Has someone been sick?’ Today, her shiny orange hair had a dark blue streak down one side, like a technicolour badger. She’d matched it with a blue bangle and blue Perspex earrings.
‘It’s just bleach,’ I said, as three more of them trudged in. ‘Where’s Ricky?’
Annika shrugged. It seemed that she spoke for them all.
‘Hasn’t anyone seen him?’
‘He’s not here,’ snapped Jono.
‘Is he ill?’
He didn’t reply.
‘How did you get on with reading the play?’ I said. More shrugging.
‘We don’t feel like working today,’ said Carly.
‘Maybe you should make collages, then,’ I suggested. ‘You were the ones who said you wanted to do something more challenging.’
‘I know,’ she sighed. ‘But today it all just seems too high-maintenance.’
‘You must have spent an hour doing that eye make-up this morning,’ I replied. Carly blushed happily, and turned her face from one side to the other, so I could fully appreciate the light glinting off her gleaming turquoise brow-bone and blue-glittered lashes. ‘So I don’t think you’re afraid of being high-maintenance. But I take your point. Edinburgh isn’t much fun on days like today, is it?’ I said.
I had clearly learned nothing. Did I want them to get side-tracked so we could talk about me instead of doing any work? I’ve thought about it hard, and I honestly don’t think so. But I did want them to like me, and perhaps that’s the same thing. I can only really be sure that I kept giving them openings like this, which they were incredibly good at exploiting – Carly especially.
‘So why did you come back to Edinburgh, then?’ she asked. ‘It wasn’t for the weather.’
‘I like the smell of yeast,’ I said, which was an obvious lie. Edinburgh isn’t as reekie as its nickname suggests it once was, but you can still smell yeast in the air on some days. It always reminds me of over-cooked food, of baked potatoes kept warm for so long that they’ve become nothing but thick, blackened skins.
‘No, but really?’ she said.
‘Robert asked me to come and teach you lot, when Miss Allen fell ill. And it’s impossible to say no to him.’
‘But what were you doing before?’ she asked.
‘I was directing plays.’
‘Really? Who was in them? Anyone famous?’
‘No, no-one famous. They don’t let you have a go on the famous people till you’ve practised on the ones no-one’s heard of.’
‘So why aren’t you doing that any more?’ asked Jono. ‘Were you rubbish at it?’ He was always like this, I was beginning to realise. I tried not to take it personally. And besides, when I was up in the staffroom yesterday, one of their other teachers had told me that he’d lobbed a brick through her car windscreen a couple of months ago, after she’d kept him behind for swearing at her. So if the worst I got from him was this default assumption of my incompetence, I’d take it.
‘I don’t think so. I just didn’t want to be in London any more. I wanted to come back to Scotland. And this job seemed like the right one. Maybe I’ll direct another play sometime. But not at the moment. I don’t have the time.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I’m using all of it to find plays for you to read, so you can tell me you don’t feel like it because the weather’s bad.’
‘When you say it like that, it sounds like you’re cross with us,’ Jono said.
‘I’m not cross with you. I just think we should do what we set out to do today, which is to talk about Oedipus.’
‘Alright, if you insist,’ he sighed and reached down to his bag to find the book, still muttering. ‘If it makes you happy.’
‘I might try to make my happiness dependent on something other than what you read in the average week, Jono.’
‘But, are you happy?’ It was Mel who asked. It was such an unexpected question that I felt a reflex answer coming. Then I remembered that she’d called me out for lying to her the first day I met her. I thought for a moment and told her the truth.
‘Not really,’ I said.
She nodded, her blue eyes fixed on mine. ‘Me either.’
‘Aw, babe,’ said Carly, and reached over to her. Mel leaned into the hug, and patted Carly’s arm as she did so, but she didn’t break eye contact with me.
‘Oh God, really?’ said Annika. Her whole body was taut with annoyance. ‘Could you just not?’
‘Fuck you,’ said Mel, finally turning her head to look at her. Annika paid no attention.
‘Seriously, I’m asking.’ Annika took off her glasses to glare at me. ‘Are we bleating on about you and Mel being a bit sad today, or are we talking about something I might give a shit about?’ She began flipping her pen in her hand. ‘Because if it’s the first one, say so now and I’ll go and do something else. I’ve only just met you, so I don’t really give a fuck how you feel, to be honest.’
‘We’re talking about Oedipus.’ I was growing tired of Annika. ‘Whether you give a shit about it or not is entirely up to you. Now, are you staying or going?’ She shrugged again. ‘Then I’ll assume you’re staying. Have you read the first act?’
No-one said anything. Jono drummed his fingers on the back cover of his book. Carly smoothed invisible stray hairs back into place.
I’d had some awkward scenes in my other classes, but I was beginning to feel like I could set my watch by Annika’s temper, and this was only the third time I’d met her.
‘OK, so, where did we get to last time?’
‘We were talking about fate, and destiny. Are they the same thing?’ Mel asked.
‘I think they are, really. The ancient Greeks had three Fates, called the Moirae – the singular is Moira.’
‘I have an Aunt Moira,’ said Jono. I didn’t know if he was trying to ease the tension in the room, or just offering up information. ‘She lives near Berwick.’
‘Is she a sinister old crone who spins the thread of men’s lives and is feared by the gods themselves?’ I asked.
‘Pretty much.’ He grinned. He had a chipped tooth, I noticed, like a fang. Was it a new injury or had I just not seen him smile before?
‘And the Moirae are a sort of triple incarnation of Fate: three women, like the witches in Macbeth, who see the future as it will be. Which is why Oedipus is such a difficult story – does he deserve his fate? Does anyone?’
‘Some people are just born unlucky,’ said Mel.
‘Really?’ I asked her. ‘That’s what you believe?’
‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘None of us has any control over most of what’s happened to us. We don’t have a say in anything. Annika doesn’t want to live here, you see, but her parents make her, and that’s why she’s such a bitch.’
‘Fuck off,’ said Annika as she stretched her arms over her head to elongate her spine. The age-softened chairs at Rankeillor wanted you to sit on them forever, and eventually your back rebelled. She didn’t disagree, however.
‘Where would you prefer to live?’ I asked her.
‘Back in Stockholm,’ she replied instantly, as though she was in a perpetual state of readiness to answer this question. ‘We lived there till I was twelve. It’s so much better than Edinburgh.’
‘Why did you move here?’ Even though she was permanently hostile, I didn’t want to give up on the idea of having any kind of civil relationship with her.
‘My dad works for an oil company. He was transferred to Aberdeen, so my mum decided we had to move there with him.’
‘Aberdeen,’ said Carly. ‘Can you imagine?’
‘I don’t have to imagine,’ she snapped. ‘We lived there for six months before my mum couldn’t stand it and we moved here.’
‘Do you still see your dad at weekends, then?’ I asked her.
‘We could see him as often if we were in Sweden. He’d have to take one extra
flight each way. He’s just being selfish.’
‘Well, I hope you can visit Stockholm soon, at least,’ I said.
She shrugged, immune to ingratiation.
‘Ricky isn’t lucky either,’ said Carly. ‘He didn’t choose to be living with his grandparents, did he? No-one would. You’d rather live with your parents, even if they’re intensely annoying, like mine. But that’s still where he is.’
‘Do you think that’s why he hasn’t come in today?’ I asked.
It was Jono who replied, without looking up from his desk. He was fiddling with something shiny and black. I couldn’t tell if it was a phone or a console. ‘He comes in when he feels like it. They’re old. They don’t really notice what he does.’
‘And some people don’t even get that,’ Mel added. ‘My brother was three when he died. He wasn’t being punished for being bad, he just got ill and then he died.’
The room fell silent. Even Jono stopped fidgeting. All I could hear were the distant sirens from the main road.
‘Are you OK talking about this?’ I asked her.
She gave a small smile. ‘I wouldn’t have brought it up otherwise. Anyway, it was ten years ago. Nearly eleven, actually. I got measles at school. Or maybe Jamie caught them at nursery. I can’t remember who got sick first. We were both ill at the same time, anyway, and I was only five. But we both got really bad, and had to go to hospital. Jamie died, and I went deaf. But I didn’t mind that so much, once my ears stopped hurting. That bit was terrible.’
‘I didn’t think you could die of the measles,’ Annika said. Her usual fuck-you tone was missing.
‘You can’t if you’ve been vaccinated,’ Mel explained. ‘You have the MMR jab when you’re little, and then if you do catch measles or whatever, you don’t get it so badly. But me and Jamie hadn’t been vaccinated. My mum blamed my dad for that. He thought the injection was dangerous. She said he talked her out of us having it. She’s never forgiven him. That’s why they got divorced.’
Carly was watching her friend intently. Her left arm was hovering, ready to hug.
‘God, Mel, that is awful,’ said Jono, turning back to look at her. ‘I didn’t know you went deaf, I thought you were born that way.’
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘I could hear fine till the measles. That’s why I can talk properly now.’
And it was true: she didn’t sound deaf. At least, not to me. Her consonants had a slight thickening to them, which people might easily attribute to a cold, if they didn’t notice her hearing aids. And since she had shoulder-length blonde hair which fell into layered waves over her ears, her tiny hearing aids were easily missed. I didn’t even realise they were hearing aids when I first saw them: they were so small and silver, I thought they were ear buds.
‘So, what do you think about your destiny, Mel? Do you think you were fated to be deaf?’
‘Maybe.’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I’m not, like, politically deaf. Deaf with a capital D, I mean. Some deaf people are really hard core. But I don’t want to be part of Deaf culture, do I?’
‘Don’t you?’ I asked. ‘Why not?’
‘They only hang out with other deaf people and only talk with sign language and stuff. I want to live like the rest of you, but I have to do it with hearing aids. It’s not terrible. It’s not like missing a leg or something. I don’t really think about what it would be like to hear properly. I can’t remember what that felt like, to be honest. So I don’t know. Maybe I was destined for deafness, and that’s why I’m not upset by it.’
‘And do you think your brother was destined to die?’ Annika leaned forward past Carly so she could see Mel more clearly.
I flinched, but Mel’s expression didn’t change at all.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘It seems kind of a waste, doesn’t it? Being born just to get to three and then die. People kept telling us we should be glad of the time we had with him, like he’d just wandered off to the shops or something. Got a better offer than hanging out with us losers. Or they went all Goddy about it. I remember one card my mum got after the funeral, from complete strangers. I guess they’d read about it in the paper. It was quite a big story, you know? A boy dying of measles. It was the first time it had happened for a while, I think. And the card had a cherub on it – a little fat baby with gold wings. I remember it really well. They wanted her to think that Jamie was like that now. Not dead, just feathery and fat. But who the fuck really believes in angels? I was five and even I could tell the difference between what you get on Christmas cards and my kid brother. Jamie wasn’t even chubby.’
Carly reached over and squeezed Mel’s hand, just like Robert had done to me a few days earlier.
‘Thanks for talking to us about that, Mel,’ I said. ‘I hope it wasn’t too upsetting for you, but you have brought an incredible perspective to the discussion.’ I sounded so condescending, I could have slapped myself. But the other three began to clap, and she looked genuinely pleased.
‘For next time, I’d like you to read the second half of the play, please,’ I said. ‘I want us to look at what kind of person Oedipus is, and what makes him the play’s hero. Think about how he behaves, and if you would do things differently. I want you to think about how angry he is. And I also want you to think about whether it’s better to know something or whether ignorance is bliss. OK? Thanks again, Mel especially. I’ll see you next week.’
DD,
Today is the first time I have ever talked about Jamie. Well, that’s not quite true. I told Carly about him before, way back when we were at Bruntsfield High. Before we got kicked out, I mean. And sometimes I talk about him with my mum. I don’t bring him up if she doesn’t, though, as it’s guaranteed to make her start crying, and that can go on for hours.
The strange thing is, I had literally no idea I was going to mention him until his name came out of my mouth. I haven’t thought about him in ages. I never say this to my mum (because of the crying thing), but I don’t really remember him. I remember the idea of him, if that makes sense. I remember having a kid brother. I remember that he used to scream a lot. I remember him saying my name, eventually, after I spent ages teaching him. I remember him screeching when he first had the measles and me telling him to shut up because my ears hurt. And that’s it. It was too long ago, and I was too little. Almost everything I remember about him is noise, and that’s the opposite of what I remember about people now.
I remember what came after Jamie much better than I remember Jamie: the fighting and the crying. Not the funeral, because I didn’t go to it. I suppose I was still in hospital, learning how to be deaf. That’s not as easy as I make it look. You’ve got to get the right hearing aids that don’t blare what Doctor Meikle calls ambient noise right into the middle of your head. You’ve got to adjust them when you go from one place to another, so you can still hear people talking even if they’re to one side of you. You’ve got to find ones that fit and aren’t massive and, more importantly, aren’t that disgusting fleshy colour like old ladies’ tights. You’ve got to wear your hair long and forwards, so that people talk to you like a person. You’ve got to learn to lip-read.
My mum just came barging in. Why she can’t knock, like normal people, I have no idea. She said she did. But people say that kind of thing all the time when you’re deaf. I mean, you would, wouldn’t you? She’s going on about the music I’m playing. She says it’s because the neighbours have complained, but I bet it’s just because she doesn’t like it. Can’t I hear them, she said, banging on the walls. I told her of course I can’t, I’m fucking deaf. And if the bass isn’t turned right up, I can’t hear that either. Jesus. I told her I’d turn it off, if it was upsetting everyone so much. She said, you don’t have to do that, just turn it down a bit. I swear to God, sometimes, there is literally no point talking to her at all.
So, here are two things I have noticed. One is that we all talk a lot more now Alex is our whatever she is. Teacher? Therapist? Responsible adult? Especially me. I don
’t think I have ever said as much since I got to Rankeillor as I did today. Which is OK. The second thing is that Alex doesn’t come in on Fridays. I thought she just didn’t have our group that day, but she isn’t there at all. Does she just not feel like working five days a week? Or does she have another job to go to? Miss Allen used to be there on Fridays, though, so something’s changed.
And before I sign off for today, I said I’d come up with a tenth fact about being deaf. So here it is: I have to watch TV with the subtitles on, because the sound mix of pretty much every programme and film is so fucking bad. If I turned my aids up high enough to hear people talking, I’d be almost bleeding from the ears when something blows up, or a plane takes off, or the music kicks in. It’s the same at the cinema. I have to go to screenings with subtitles, because the sound at the top end is way too loud. And the surround sound they have at some cinemas is even worse. My hearing aids don’t work very well when noise comes from lots of different directions at once. It’s like they’re not expecting it. I don’t ever watch the news. If you want to know why, turn the sound off, and put the subtitles on. It’s literally gibberish half the time.
The next time I saw that group I wasn’t feeling well at all. I’d made my first trip back to London the previous Friday. Wait a minute, the lawyers will say. You said before that you didn’t want to be in London. That you were hoping never to go back there again. It’s in our notes. That’s what you said. So, Miss Morris, why did you return to London only a couple of weeks after you’d left the city, of your own volition? I don’t know if they’ll use words like volition, obviously. But my guess is that they will. I’d almost be disappointed if they didn’t. There’s really no point going into Law if you aren’t going to say ‘volition’ from time to time.
And as with everything else, I’ll have to tell them the truth. Though it will be hard to explain in a way that makes sense to anyone else. Once a fortnight, or sometimes once a week, depending on how much money I had going spare and how much I needed to do it, I would sit on a train for four and a half hours to go somewhere I didn’t want to be. I never contacted any of my friends in the city, nor my mother in the suburbs. I never spent the night; I always caught the five-thirty train back. Why that one? Because the six o’clock is the last train, and it’s always too busy. So the five thirty is better.
The Furies: A Novel Page 6