Getting Over It

by Anna Maxted

  She points at the Hell Bank Notes and says hurriedly, ‘I know it says Hell and don’t think that means he’s in Hell, they all say that, all the money you burn says that, it’s just, I suppose that, er, people are at different places in the afterlife and um, they’re covering all possibilities.’ She peers into my face. ‘Are you okay?’

  I nod, put my head in my hands and wail, ‘It’s such a wonderful it’s such a boo hoo beautiful thing, Liz, it’s so sweet of you! Oh God what an amazing thing!’ At this point someone hits me on the spine so hard I am flung forward and nearly poke out my eye on a candlestick. ‘Thanks, Luke,’ I mumble, ‘you don’t have to pat me on the back any more, I’m okay now.’

  Lizzy runs to the side, rips off a square of kitchen roll and hands it to me. I dab my eyes and try not to think of how touched I am because I don’t want to start blubbing again. I wipe my nose, scrunch up the kitchen roll, and say snufflingly, ‘A candle on a wooden stick.’

  Lizzy gasps and says, ‘Oh yes! The red candles symbolise food!’

  Luke pokes at a long plastic pack and cries, ‘Joss sticks! Reminds me of being a student!’

  I say witheringly: ‘Reminds you of last week more like,’ and he grins, relieved that I’ve stopped grizzling.

  Lizzy smiles and says, ‘You burn the joss sticks first, three of them, and that gets your dad’s attention.’

  I say, ‘Can’t I just pretend I’m about to get a tattoo?’

  Lizzy giggles and says, ‘Well, if you want to be doubly sure.’

  I wave a hand in front of my face to indicate that I’m shutting up, and gesture for her to continue. Then I notice something else in the pack – ‘What’s this! It’s beautiful. Look, Luke, sheafs of silver and gold leaf on funny thin paper!’

  I look questioningly at Lizzy who sighs beatifically and says, ‘It’s traditional Chinese money – you burn it too. You fold it first, in the shape of a gold tael – the Chinese weight measurement thingy for a gold ingot. Look, like this, in the shape of a fortune cookie. There you go! Although I do think it looks too pretty to burn, but it’s nice to think you’re sending your father such pretty things!’

  I nod. It seems a shame to say that my father never noticed pretty things when he was alive – not liking yellow ruled out sunflowers and cornfields and daffodils – so I say nothing. Maybe death will have mellowed him.

  ‘Where do you burn it all?’ I say.

  Lizzy pauses. ‘Well,’ she says, ‘anywhere really. In Hong Kong you can burn it in your apartment block staircase if you want. You don’t have to do it at the grave. You can do it at the roadside, although maybe in England it’d be better to do it in your garden. I thought the cigarettes would be nice for your dad – you said he smoked a lot.’

  I say, ‘But you hate smoking!’

  Lizzy shrugs and says awkwardly, ‘Yes, but if he’s already dead I suppose it’s okay.’

  I look at Luke nodding in wise agreement and growl, ‘You’re still alive! So don’t think that ruling applies to you!’

  Luke pokes out his tongue and lights up. Lizzy continues. ‘You can also lay out your dad’s favourite meal or snack – you don’t burn it but you can eat it later. But do you want me to write it all down for you?’

  I say, ‘Yes please,’ and smooth a finger across the shiny gold leaf. I stare at the gold leaf for a good three minutes while Lizzy scribbles frantically on a piece of paper. She then hands it to me and I read it and smile. She has written:

  Ritual

  light three joss sticks to summon Dad. Concentrate on his name. Let sticks burn for five mins. (Can be on Chinese New Year, but not essential.)

  light red candles. Say few words – tell spirit what he’s got coming.

  put stuff in sack, write date on sack, and burn in steel bin, or if easier burn one bit at time. DON’T use water to put fire out. Has to burn out by itself. (Water stops goods getting passed through.)

  lay out snacks (e.g. peanuts) if wish (eat later).

  I sigh and say, ‘It’s such a lovely thing, Lizzy.’ Lizzy nods. She looks as if she wants to speak. ‘What?’ I say.

  She frowns and chirrups, ‘You’ve got to be careful when you burn it. It’s the major cause of forest fires in Hong Kong!’

  I laugh then look at her suspiciously and say, ‘Was that what you were going to tell me?’

  Lizzy bites her lip. Then she says, ‘I’m not sure if I should tell you this bit but’ – I raise my eyebrows – ‘Okay,’ she says. ‘Well, people do do this mainly to look after the dead person, but it’s also a bit selfish – it’s to gain favour with the spirit. So he’ll look after you and bring you luck. You also burn items to keep evil spirits away, which I suppose could seem like bribery, but obviously not in this case. But I just thought I should tell you, you know, so you’re aware of what you’re doing. I always think it’s best to be aware of what you’re doing.’

  I squeeze Lizzy’s hand. I don’t want to reply in case my voice cracks. I pick up the packet of joss sticks and breathe in their rich scent, then jump up to make Lizzy a decaffeinated coffee. And I don’t say this to Lizzy but I am already aware that if I do burn money from the Bank of Hell to send to my father it will be a selfish act. It will be selfish because it’s not about my father. He doesn’t care. He’s dead. It’s about me. Not wanting him to be dead. And sending him a paper Rolex because I don’t want to believe that death is the end. I want him to still be conscious, like me. I want him to be excited at getting a present through the post, like me.

  Which incidentally reminds me – this morning I caught the postman effing and blinding and trying to force a medium-sized parcel through my mother’s small-sized letter box, so I opened the door and said, ‘You could have rung!’ So for my father’s sake, I hope that postmen in the afterlife are a tad more patient. You could do a lot of damage trying to force a Mercedes through a letter box.

  When Luke and Lizzy leave I gather up my death-kit and probably for the first time in my life, feel a girly burst of gratitude – towards who, I’m not sure – for my friends. I march to the phone and ring Tina. She answers immediately, in a small voice. ‘Tina!’ I breathe, lowering my pitch to match hers. ‘How are you!’ I am so delighted to speak to her that I forget I’m sulking. ‘What are you up to tonight?’ I say.

  ‘Nothing,’ she says.

  ‘I’ll come round!’ I cry.

  ‘Oh no please don’t,’ she says quickly.

  Something in her tone catches at my heart and I say, ‘Tina, I’m sorry I said that stuff about Adrian, it was shit of me, and I am like a broken record sometimes – but I’m, hah, in the process of being mended.’

  May I interrupt myself here to say this is possibly the noblest lie I’ve ever uttered – but I feel so warmed by the kindness of Lizzy and Luke that I want to be saintly and forgive. Tina says something not a million miles from ‘Huf!’ She adds quickly, ‘Don’t be sorry, Helen.’

  I wait to see if there’s more, but there isn’t so I say, ‘How about I bring round some Blackadder vids and smoky bacon crisps?’

  Faster than the speed of sound Tina is saying no. ‘Oh not tonight, no I don’t think so, another time I—’

  But my wish to forgive overrides Tina’s wish that I leave her alone which I suppose is selfish again, but then what isn’t? You can’t feel other people’s pain, only your own. I gabble, ‘I’llbearoundinfortyminutesokaybye!’ and put the phone down. She rings back immediately but I ignore her. I leave a note for my mother and speed to the video shop.

  Forty-eight minutes later – the traffic is preposterous – I’m ringing Tina’s doorbell. I know she’s there so I ring and ring and when she doesn’t answer I sit on the doorstep and wait. After twelve minutes she slowly opens the door. ‘What’s wrong with you you nutt—’ I begin the question but there is no need to end it. What is wrong with Tina is as plain as her cut lip and the ugly purple bruise on her chin. My eyes prickle and even as I deny reality I know the truth. I say, ‘God no. Tell me you had an
accident. Why didn’t you tell me. Tina, Tina, oh my poor Tina, I’ll break his neck the fucker, the oh my God.’

  The hate wells and I am afraid to touch her, this thin, broken shell of my bright, glamorous friend. I hold out my arms and she collapses into them and weeps on my shoulder and I hear myself mew with pity and anger as she wails, ‘But he really loves me.’

  Chapter 34

  A FEW YEARS ago I was marching around the heath extension with Lizzy – who has a nasty habit of forcing people out on walks – and we saw a woman trotting along with three whippets. One of the dogs spied us across the field, ran the entire length of it towards us, and cringed against my legs. Flattered by this inexplicable show of trust, I bent and stroked it. Lizzy was enthralled. ‘It’s as if he knew you would protect him!’ she cried. Even though I vastly prefer cats, my ego was swayed by the bittersweet romance of the moment. I became convinced that animals had an instinct for goodish people.

  Then I bought Fatboy, whose blatant aversion to anyone nice turned my quaint assumption on its dumb head. But I was fond of my theory and loath to let it go. I remained fixed on the magnetic whippet incident as a sign. Preferably, a sign that I was special. Maybe I had a raw sensuality that animals could relate to? (‘I’ve got it! You smell!’ exclaimed Marcus.) I chanced upon an idea that suited me. What if I was spiritually attuned to vulnerable souls and the whippet sensed this? After all, I realised that my mother was needier than anyone else on the planet at the age of six. That was it! I was blessed with a unique insight! I really was.

  I sporadically indulged this twaddle until the day I faced Tina and saw that her pink-and-white cherub of a boyfriend – who I’d blithely assumed was delightful because he looked good and had a posh job – was bashing her to a pulp. That wiped the smile off my face, I can tell you. The ludicrous words ‘But Adrian’s not the type,’ leapt and danced and chased around my head in circles. ‘I want you to swear you won’t tell anyone,’ begged Tina. Only when I’d sworn on ‘your mother’s – no, Fatboy’s life’ would she speak.

  She sat stiff on the edge of her yellow sofa and her eyes flicked about. She reminded me of a lizard trapped in a jar. I listened in silence. I found it hard enough to reconcile my glowing impression of Adrian with the man she described. And I found it almost impossible to reconcile my sassy successful friend with this piteous wreck of a woman hunched in front of me. She spoke in a whisper and directed her words to the floor and I had to strain to hear what she was saying.

  ‘I don’t know if this counts, because it was just a row. Everyone has rows. And he was so sorry he cried. And I’m a right harpy when I get going. You can’t blame him. It was the car. I should have had it serviced but I was penny-pinching. Trying to save money. We’d been to Adrian’s boss for dinner and I’d eaten a, a braised pea off my plate. With my fingers, before everyone was served. It was embarrassing for Adrian. Like he was going out with someone common.

  ‘Anyway we got outside and he was distant. And cold. I didn’t know what I’d done. It might’ve been okay except the car wouldn’t start. I thought the battery was flat. And we hadn’t brought our mobiles. Adrian didn’t want to go and ring on his boss’s door to call a cab. I’d ruined everything. He started screaming at me and kicking the car. I shouted back and so he pulled my hair to calm me down. I know he didn’t mean to, but it hurt – a big clump came out – and my eyes watered. He says it was just a joky tug.

  ‘He was so sorry though, he cried too. He only did it because he hated to see me make a fool of myself in public. He was really really upset. He punched the dashboard and then the engine started and so he forgave me. The next day he brought me flowers and breakfast in bed. He’s a doll like that. He really cares! He was sad that we argued so I tried to comfort him and make him feel better about it. He hardly ever hits me. It’s not continuous. Certainly not more than once every, hmm, six weeks. Most of the time it’s great, you know – he’s funny. He cracks me up. And so clever.

  ‘I’ve never met anyone like him. He’s under a lot of stress at work. It’s tough for him. It’s crucial he makes the right impression and I’d jeopardised that. So you can understand. We were fine after that. Fine. Until, until I did this stupid thing. I should have realised. We’d gone to the Dog & Duck up the road from me. We came back pissed and I forgot where I’d put the door key. Adrian was knackered. He had this meeting with a client the next day and it was imperative he got to sleep on time. I’d fucked up. He called me an ugly bitch and kicked me and banged my head into the door. I fainted and I woke up in bed. He’d found the key in his pocket. He was so sorry. He was so kind. Nursing me and put ice and tissue on the cut. And saying it didn’t need stitches, it was just a scratch. And getting a headache pill and more tissue from the late-night chemist. And missing out on sleep for me. He bought me flowers and chocolates right through the week. He spent a fortune. He repaired the door. He’s so generous.

  ‘I still get headaches but it was a one-off. It wasn’t like I didn’t deserve it. He only does it because I provoke him. The rest of the time he’s so gentle. It’s hard to understand if you don’t know him. I can’t explain it. I know it will get better. It will be okay so long as I cut back on my drinking. And learn a bit more about how to behave in public. So I’m sorry if I haven’t seen you and Liz that much. It’s that I’m trying to make it work with Adrian, I’m trying, and I know I’ve been snappy. I want it to get better. So you mustn’t tell anyone. It’s my business, it isn’t a big problem. I frustrate him and it whirls out of control. It’s him I feel sorry for, poor bloke. Stuck with me, trying to make a shit out of a shite . . .’

  She said other stuff but you get the drift. This month’s injuries were caused when Adrian cracked her round the face with the telephone. She’d put milk in his jasmine tea (he threw the cup at her but missed). She must have done a very bad thing indeed because normally he wouldn’t dream of touching her on the face. Sweet of him, I think, because it really is so vulgar for one’s girlfriend to walk around with a broken nose for everyone to see and gossip at – so much more refined to keep all bloody beatings to arms and legs and torso where the telltale weals can be covered up with a smart cashmere top and elegant wool trousers.

  I look at Tina’s determinedly blank face and gently suggest that Adrian is an evil, violent bully who should be banged up and she hasn’t done anything wrong and furthermore there isn’t anything she could do that warrants being hit. Ever. There is no excuse for it. None. Sorry and flowers don’t make it better. And it won’t get better. If she tolerates it, he’ll keep doing it. Can’t she see that? I say this in a quiet, casual way because I’m terrified she will block her ears and order me out. Tina is prisoner to the cult of Adrian and my words are blasphemy. She feels guilty for talking to me, she says. Disloyal. She jerkily folds her arms and mutters that she can’t think any more, she’s confused, she doesn’t know what she feels. She keeps repeating, ‘It will get better,’ like a chant.

  When I try to state the facts in a clear and lucid manner so she cannot deny them, she denies them. It’s like she doesn’t understand English. With a shock, I realise she is delusional. It is as if she sees the world through his eyes. Her reality is an altered state. I can hardly believe I’m talking to Tina. She’s like a lost soul in animation. I feel bereaved.

  The woman who spent three months trekking alone through Africa, who bullied a Hell’s Angel into vacating his tube seat for an elderly woman, who chased a mugger up an alleyway and forced him to return her purse, who led a thirty-strong group of American tourists around Rome having never set foot in the city (she read three guidebooks the previous week), believes she is worthless. But then, considering she believes that a man can hold his girlfriend’s head under water in the bath for two full minutes while she splashes and struggles for air ‘as a joke’ – I suppose her belief system is out of whack.

  And she won’t let me help her. I ask her, doesn’t she feel angry with Adrian for what he’s done and she hesitates and says maybe,
once, but now she just feels angry with herself. My pulse throbs and I say sharply, does Adrian know she has three brothers, and more to the point, do her three brothers know about Adrian? Then I feel terrible because she is so scared she whimpers and the sound of it chills me and she tells me I have to promise again not to say a word because, because . . . She trails off and my gut clenches and I don’t get how she can be like this but I hear her.

  Tina tells me she’s off work until the New Year now but I’m not to call her. She’s fine, really she is, she’s a bit run down, she wants to rest and be quiet. When her face is better she’s going to go home to her parents. Adrian is skiing in Val d’Isère with friends. He did ask Tina but kept warning her that it wasn’t her scene, so she declined the invitation. My diplomacy bubble pops and I exclaim, ‘Tina! Just listen to yourself! I can’t believe you’re letting him abuse you like this!’

  I regret my outburst instantly, not least because Tina snaps, ‘Excuse me? Jasper? Marcus? Hel-lo! I don’t think you’re in a position to preach, Helen, do you?’

  I can’t imagine what she means but I drive home fast at 3 a.m., thinking fuck, fuck, fuck. I am stunned. It is as if Adrian was my boyfriend hitting me. I go straight to my mother’s computer, log on to the internet and scroll through a long list of books on abuse, which includes the corker Domestic Violence For Beginners.

  I order four titles. Tina won’t like this, but I’ve just bought her Christmas present. My heart is racing as I announce to the dark silence, ‘Tina. You don’t know it yet but you are going to leave that vicious bastard if it’s the last thing I do.’