Sweet Home

by Wendy Erskine

  Inakeen didn’t mean mum however. That had been an unexpected revelation. The previous month, Jean went to the doctor’s because she had reached the age when she could get the free flu jab. She felt obliged to go because they had sent her a letter. The waiting room was full. Each time the buzzer was pressed so that someone could gain admittance all heads turned to gawp. The woman who tried to get through the door with the double buggy caused a stir, and the man in the yellow jacket with a bandage over one eye. Jean was astonished to see W7 appear. Like before, people looked at her and then at each other for a moment before going back to reading the cheap magazines or watching the television. If only it had been Black Sail who stormed in, in full regalia, her eyes going what? what? you got a problem? That would have been something. But W7 didn’t join everyone in the waiting room; she went behind the counter to speak to one of the receptionists, and then from what Jean could see, she moved to the doctors’ area.

  The practice nurse who gave her the injection said that they had been busy that morning. When those letters went out there was always an influx.

  But anyway, the woman nurse said. Makes the day go quick.

  Jean rolled down the sleeve of her blouse.

  She tried to sound amused. And I see you’ve even got the women in the headscarves coming in.

  What’s that?

  One of those women with the headscarves.

  Oh, the nurse said. Yes. That wee girl. That wee girl’s the Somali interpreter. We need to get them in now you see. There’s different interpreters come in on different mornings.

  I see.

  The way of it nowadays. There’ll be a good few Somali patients in soon.

  Changed times, Jean said.

  As she passed the reception on the way out, she saw that W7 was there, gathering up some medical records.

  Excuse me, Jean said. Excuse me.

  W7 looked up and Jean saw her winged eyeliner.

  I just wanted to say—

  What is it, love? said the receptionist, coming over.

  Oh, just that, I don’t have to pay, do I?

  Course you don’t, love. Free for the over sixty-fives.

  When she got home Jean went to the computer and typed in Inakeen. Somali—translation to—English. It didn’t mean mother. It didn’t mean mum. It meant ‘let’s go.’ But Inakeen was Inakeen now anyway; Jean wasn’t going to come up with something new and Inakeen suited her.

  I just wanted to say that I live across the road from you.

  Nothing upstairs that I want other than this. Dad got me this. He held up a deflated rugby ball. Chuck the rest out.

  Right you are, said Jean.

  Pisses me off big time that dad never got to meet his grandson.

  Yes, Jean said. But not much we can do about it.

  A real, real pity. Don’t think he would have thought much of all this Canada shit. Wonder what he would have made of it.

  Might have thought it wasn’t ideal.

  Don’t think he’d have liked Mariel much. Don’t know why I liked Mariel much.

  So, Malcolm said, who won?

  Who won what?

  That thing you were going on about. The competition. You know, the thing that you ended up being a non-starter in.

  Oh that, Jean said. Well, there were highly commended pictures, quite a lot of them, and then third prize was, third prize was an old cottage in Donegal. And then second was of a close up of an old man’s face, a profile, and then first was Carrick Castle. A woman at Carrick Castle, taken by somebody from my club. The club I used to go to.

  Woman at Carrick Castle, said Malcolm. Sounds crap. That was the winner?

  On the camera club trip to Carrick Castle, Jean was given a lift by Sam the tutor, along with Angie, the divorcee. The two of them sat in the front and Jean in the back. Jean listened as Sam talked about his work at the art college. His wife worked there too. Angie had just been promoted to a new grade in the civil service. All change. Angie’s stilettos had complex lacing, probably not best for castle cobbles and winding steps. Jean had seen them as Angie walked towards the car. Angie had problems with her camera. Could Sam help her? Jean saw through the gap in the car seats the sheen of Angie’s knee and how Sam’s hand was only a small stretch away from it. They hardly remembered her in the back. When Jean caught Sam’s eyes in the rear-view mirror she knew he saw only the retreating white lines of the road.

  It was well composed, Jean said. Good enough photo, I suppose.

  The winning entry had been a crisp study of the girl in the white dress, taken against the brick of an interior wall. She remembered the half-circle of photographers.

  Anyway you won’t see me for a bit, Malcolm said. I got a lot of work on next week and then because I’ve still got holiday time left, I’m going to try to get away for a few days. Might even head over to Scotland. I’ll just see how it goes. Would quite like to head over to Scotland.

  That’s fine, said Jean. Hope you have a good time, if you decide to go away.

  Malcolm said that he had joined a new gym. He was going to head on down to it for a quick session. Given up on the other place, he said. The new one down in Hill Street didn’t have a membership fee so it worked out better value. He said that that was another thing that he didn’t like about the new boss, always eating, probably in the category of obese. Eating all the time.

  When Jean was waving goodbye as Malcolm drove off, she saw the flashing blue light of the television in the house across the road. They would all be in that living room, on the sofa, nested in corduroy. Inakeen was probably a good cook, the kitchen warm with simmering stews. They would have kicked their shoes off. When Jean went back into her living room she switched off the television and let the silence settle. She had half a thought to ring Mariel—if she could speak to Anton or Mariel, just hear a few words—but it was afternoon for them and there was never any answer at that time, whatever they were doing.

  Jean climbed the stairs to Malcolm’s room. She took a seat on his bed. That stuff in the boxes wasn’t even worth taking to the charity shop. Old cassettes and videos, ancient textbooks never returned, a glass bottle filled with one pence pieces, nobody wanted it. Jean ran her hand along the duvet, black faded to grey in places with the sun. She undid the poppers of the cover, half of them missing anyway, and pulled it off. The duvet looked lumpy with clumped feathers.

  Downstairs Jean laid the duvet cover across the kitchen table. There were so many chairs in the house: the three-piece suite, the four chairs around the kitchen table, the same number around the dining room table. The duvet cover was too long by at least a foot and a half. She was only five foot four. Jean got out the good scissors and cut with a steady, firm hand. She judged where to make the short, horizontal cut, about seven inches from the top, and the point of the scissors went through the fabric neatly.

  Outside it was still and there was no one about, no one to see Jean cross the road. She could see perfectly well through the aperture; the slit had been cut in just the right place. From the other side of the road she saw her own house looked tired. Jean lifted her covered hand to ring the bell, and this time, through the grandiose chime, she hoped she could hear footsteps.

  Inakeen, she would say. Let’s go.

  Observation

  Thing about people like her, people like Kim Cassells, is that they think they’re something special. Cath’s mum was ironing a shirt, pinching the sleeve at the shoulder and cuff to crisp the line. And they’re not. She put down the iron, did the other sleeve. Cath wanted to hear more. What way do you mean? Well, her mum said, people like that think the world owes them something but it owes them nothing at all and it couldn’t give two hoots about their pretty face or the pretty face they used to have. That this was how the world felt about things sounded a source of some satisfaction.

  Kim Cassells was Cath’s friend Lauren’s mum. She was always that, Kim Cassells, never just plain Kim. Lauren had to do her own washing. Doesn’t take a genius to turn a dial was wh
at Kim Cassells said. One time when Lauren and Cath were in town, Lauren said she needed to buy new bedding. Where would you even get something like that? Cath asked. Loads of places, Lauren said. You just haven’t a clue. She needed a fitted sheet and had to explain to Cath what a fitted sheet actually was. ChipChop in town was where they always went for something to eat. They kept each other up to date with the latest capers of the desperadoes from school, their different schools where there were the same characters: the aspiring hard man, the girl who was bisexual—no gay—no bisexual, the person who was always spreading rumours. One day in ChipChop, when school had been exhausted, the talk turned to Kim Cassells. There was a crowd of boys there that day, occupied with downloading porn ringtones to their phones. They kept ringing each other so that they could hear the elaborate crescendo of female gasping. Lauren said that there was a new boyfriend on the scene for her mum. That wasn’t anything particularly unusual because Kim Cassells had had many boyfriends in the time since Lauren and Cath had been friends. One of them had been an estate agent, another an accountant. Then there was a local footballer; a photo of the two of them at the launch of a pre-mixed vodka drink had been in the paper. She was always out on the town for a meal on Valentine’s night with somebody or other. Valentine’s night in town, Cath’s dad said, was only for mugs hoping to get their end away.

  Yeah, Lauren said. This new guy is called Stuart. What’s he look like? Cath asked. Lauren shrugged. Alright. He’s just a guy. He’s around our place all the time. She closed the lid on her cardboard box of noodles. I’m going to eat the rest of this later. He’s a bit younger than some of the others. Twenty-six. Cath said that that wasn’t really crazy young. Well nearer my age than hers, Lauren said. She pushed the noodle box on the tray that was sitting on the table. I’m stuffed after these, I can’t eat any more. Maybe let’s just go, Cath said. Cos I’ve just about had enough of these ringtones.

  Kim Cassells met Stuart at her local gym. That she was an exercise enthusiast was obvious from even a quick consideration of her physique. Being in proximity to Kim Cassells had always made Cath feel lumpen. She had various accoutrements that she used at home to supplement her workouts at the gym and most evenings she went for a run. She had white tubs of protein supplements lined up in the kitchen and in the living room there were kettlebells of varying weights. If she went on holiday it was to places where the hotel complex had a gym. Kim Cassells always went on holiday with friends and Lauren was farmed out to someone or other. They were adults-only resorts: Kim Cassells wasn’t slogging for a year to spend a week listening to other people’s screaming kids.

  When they got off the bus on the way home, Lauren said that there was something she wanted to tell Cath that was highly confidential. Cath had heard this before. A lot of expectation was generated, but invariably the info was something totally banal. It was always easy to keep highly confidential something that no person was interested in knowing anyway. Well, Lauren said, it’s Stuart. Your mum’s guy? Yeah, she said. Well, thing is, I’ve kissed him and stuff. Right, Cath replied. Wow. She was pretty interested in the and stuff. Is he good looking? Like, is he really hot? Lauren considered. Well, not celebrity hot, but normal person quite hot. He’s nearer my age than hers. Cath didn’t say, you’ve told me that already. It was just one of those things, totally unplanned, Lauren said. She was going down the stairs and he was going up the stairs and she moved to the side to let him pass and he moved to the side too at exactly the same time and they both laughed the way you do when that happens and then he put his hand on the back of her head—she showed Cath where—and he pulled her towards him and then that was that. Lauren said she was wearing her dressing gown. Cath had seen that dressing gown. It was patterned like a carpet and it had a hood. I had nothing on underneath, she said. Because I’d just had a shower. They were now outside Lauren’s house. So then what happened after? Did you continue going down the stairs and he continued going up? Yes, said Lauren. Because he was heading to the toilet. And I was going to get a glass of water. What about your mum? Cath asked. What if she finds out?

  The majority of guys, Cath thought later, if they were offered a night with Kim Cassells or Lauren would pick Kim Cassells, on account of her being really very good looking. That was what she reckoned although her knowledge of guys was pretty theoretical. Lauren might be a much more pleasant person and not at all sour like her mum, but pleasantness in the short term might not actually account for much. Kim Cassells or Lauren though, maybe it was a mistake to assume an either/or. Perhaps the answer was that fellas would pick both, like this guy Stuart, if it could be arranged. Cath kept looking at her dad who was over in the armchair; she was trying to see him afresh, wondering if anyone from school would find him attractive. Perhaps if he was a millionaire, a billionaire that would clinch it, but without the lure of dirty cash she didn’t think he would do it for anybody. His sideburns shaded from brown to white, and the grey jogging bottoms he had started to wear around the house were over-elasticated at the ankles, in the style of a comfortable genie.

  Dad, did you actually have many girlfriends before you got married? Cath asked. I can’t remember, he said. Of course you can. Have a think. Before you were married: did you have many girlfriends? He reconsidered. No. I didn’t. Maybe I should have had. Why are you asking? Cath said that she just wondered. Well, I didn’t, he said. I met your mother and then boom. He didn’t say boom with much enthusiasm. Her dad was concentrating on the film on the telly. There was a woman with long brown hair contemplating something at a desk. Do you think she’s good looking? Cath asked. She’s alright, he said. I think she’s not too bad.

  When Cath went upstairs to go to bed, there was no need to go down again but she did, so that she could stop on the stairs. She tilted her head, imagining a figure on the step below who was still tall enough to tower over her. She put her hand to the back of her head and opened her mouth slightly. What are you doing? It was her dad at the bottom of the stairs. What are you looking at? he said. Nothing. It’s just I thought I could see a crack in the ceiling. The ceiling? You serious? He took the stairs two at a time to peer at smooth white plaster. No, he said. There’s no crack in the ceiling. You must be seeing things.

  Under the pretext of needing a jumper she had lent her some months ago, Cath called round to Lauren’s house because she was interested in getting a look at Stuart. Crap, you need that jumper, hope I can find it, Lauren said as she went upstairs. Although the television was on, there was no one in the living room. One of the kettlebells was in the middle of the rug. Cath went over and gave it a swing. There hadn’t been anyone in the kitchen either. Maybe Stuart didn’t come around until later on or maybe he wasn’t coming at all. There was nothing to indicate his presence, no empty coat on one of the kitchen chairs, no sports bag in the hall. Kim Cassells’ car had been in the driveway, but there was no sign of her either, other than a pair of lycra leggings hung over the banister. When Cath held them up, she saw they were three-quarter length. Then the bathroom door opened and Kim Cassells emerged, wrapped in a towel. Hi, Cath said. Kim Cassells’ skin was still wet. Cath could see the beads of water on her shoulders. On her arm there was a round dent from that injection people used to get. She had a tattoo of some text on her shoulder and when she turned Cath was able to read it. Only God Can Judge Me. She was a badass and mortal opinion was of no interest to her.

  Lauren, Kim Cassells said. My hairdryer. Where is it?

  Lauren dashed to her room to retrieve the hairdryer with the flex neatly wrapped around it. Sorry, she said. I borrowed it the other morning. I should have left it back.

  Cath sat on the bed as Lauren looked for the jumper she didn’t care if she ever saw again. Lauren had plastic boxes of clothes under her bed and some old Christmas decorations, tinsel and a miniature fibre-optic tree. She put bits and pieces up in her room because Kim Cassells took a minimal approach to Christmas. The hairdryer in the next room suddenly switched up a gear. There was only that wall between
Lauren and Kim Cassells. In the houses in Kim Cassells’ street the walls were thin, just plasterboard. Kim Cassells’ room was lilac and grey, Cath had seen it from the landing.

  What’s everyone up to this evening? Cath asked.

  Lauren said that they were going for a drink in some new place.

  Who’s they?

  My mum and Stuart obviously, she said. Hey! Found it! And Lauren pulled the jumper from one of the plastic boxes. It’s in a state, she said.

  Doesn’t matter at all, Cath replied. No worries at all.

  Lauren said she needed to get on with some work. That new woman always gives us stuff for the next day. This jumper, Cath said, it’s actually pretty useful. Goes with a lot of stuff. Sorry it’s in a state, Lauren said. I was wondering, Cath began, can you actually iron wool, or is that not what you do, don’t know, don’t know if this is actually even wool, could be something else. Cath, I really don’t know, Lauren said. Then the doorbell rang. The doorbell! Cath kept on looking for the tag of the jumper even though she had already seen it and that the jumper was polyamide/ acrylic/viscose blend. The doorbell rang again. On the infrequent occasions when Cath came around, she never went in the front. She always went round the back of the house where the door was usually open.

  Get that, Lauren! Kim Cassells shouted. I’m still putting on my make-up! Get it would you!

  Lauren put down the book she was holding and went down the stairs with Cath following her. Beyond the pebbled glass of the front door was an amorphous white and blue shape. Lauren! Kim Cassells shouted again. Lauren turned the lock and to Cath’s surprise ran back up the stairs again, leaving her standing there in front of the door that was only ajar. The person outside, the person who Cath hoped was Stuart, didn’t move to push the door open. Cath waited for a few seconds and then decided that she needed to take the handle and pull it open. She did this slowly, and what was in front of her was a man of about six feet tall in black jeans and a T-shirt. Had he just had a haircut? His parting was shaved in to one side. Cath looked down at his trainers which were pristine apart from a black smudge where the leather met the sole on the right hand toe. It wasn’t the warmest of evenings, but he had no jacket.