All the Good Things

by Clare Fisher

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Like, 100%?’

  She almost laughed. ‘Yes. Yes, I am.’

  My face was all smile.

  ‘So you were trying?’

  I shook my head. ‘It was an accident. Total accident. But a good one.’

  She smiled back. ‘Good. But look, don’t rush into anything. Talk to someone you trust. Read these leaflets. Then think about what’s best for the baby – and for you.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I shoved the leaflets down into the bottom of my bag but I didn’t look at them; I already knew I was going to keep you.

  As soon as I got home, I swept the pasta and the sauce and the crisps and even the turquoise things – when I looked at them, they screamed him, not me – straight in the bin. I chucked the wine glasses on top, listened to them smash, then tied the liner up extra-tight and dragged it all the way to the huge metal bins outside. Chucking it in, I waited to hear it smush against everyone else’s rubbish. It did. Then I walked back to my flat and I wasn’t even sad because I wasn’t alone any more; you were inside me and you weren’t going anywhere because you couldn’t, not unless I said so; you were 100% mine.

  14. How cats can find sun to lie in, even on a cloudy day

  Most women in here get letters every week. Happy letters, sad letters, angry letters. Letters about that new Chinese that opened up around the corner, they do a chilli-teriyaki chicken that will literally blow your head off – you should try it when you get out. That’s if I still have my head! Letters to say their daughter has been caught swiping tuna mayo sandwiches from the canteen yet again. ‘They must’ve made a mistake; she don’t even like tuna mayo.’ Letters about their divorce. ‘I never wanna see that bastard and his bastard moustache again.’ Letters about how they bloody changed all the bus routes so now you’ve got to walk the long way round to the shops. Letters about the letters their mum’s sent to the Council about the bins but they don’t bloody reply. Bet they put the bloody letter straight in the bin!!

  I’m now an expert at making myself invisible when the letters are handed out: I do sit-ups or read in my cell, or I go to the library. But the women read their letters so many times that the words of the people who’ve written them – people who, often, love them too – jump out of their mouths in the line for dinner or the shower or exercise. When you’re in line, the only way to make yourself invisible is to step out of it, which will only make you more visible, which means I’ve no choice but to breathe in deep through my nose and say something normal like, ‘Oh, really?’ I’ll say it as loud as I can in the hope of blocking out that mean little voice, the one only I can hear, that hisses: See? You’re so bad, no one ever writes to you.

  But the other day, I got a letter, too.

  ‘Are you sure?’ I said, when the screw chucked it into my cell.

  He walked back, looked me up and down, and smiled like I was a bad joke he’d just found on the internet. ‘Can’t you read? It’s your own chavvy name on it.’

  I pressed my lips together. Counted to 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. If he’d still been there on 5, I’d have said something stupid; luckily, he was already at the next cell, tormenting someone else.

  I lay down on my bed and looked again at the envelope:

  Bethany Mitchell, HM Women’s Prison, Leesthorpe, 112 Leesthorpe Way, Sussex. The handwriting. It was tall and loopy and I knew exactly who it belonged to and you’re not going to guess who. Can you? Can you guess?

  My mum.

  My mum was the person at the end of the hand that wrote the letter. My letter.

  The woman who’d carried me in her belly for nine months and then pushed me out into this world – just like I did for you.

  I dropped it. Then I lay down on my mattress and shut my eyes and tried to rewind everything that had just happened. Too late. My heart was banging around my chest. My belly churned. Worst was this voice – a mix of mine and hers – that spiralled around my head, each word louder than the last: So I heard what you done. I’m disgusted. Makes me certain I was right to leave you. I knew, even when you were a kid, that you were destined to do seriously bad things. I don’t know how long your sentence is but I sincerely hope you don’t get out for a long, long time.

  No matter if the envelope was still lying under my bed, unopened, hugging up dust, I was 100% convinced that when I’d open it, I’d find these words. They followed me around, making it hard to sleep or eat or focus on what I was supposed to be doing, like watching the tutor explain how to divide two fractions on the board, or standing in line or pretending to listen to Jeannie’s story about how that scary new woman with the purple hair stole her toothbrush.

  Erika told me to open it. ‘The reality can’t be as bad as what you imagine.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, ‘it’s probably worse.’

  ‘Why assume that?’

  ‘Because. We don’t have a good history, me and letters.’

  Growing up, my foster parents were constantly getting them from school: Bethany is bunking off/naughty/stupid/mad/driving us mad/just not good enough. When I moved into my own flat, the doormat was always thick with special offers and newsletters and bills for ‘The Occupier’. I’d never occupied any place before, so at first, I’d rip them open as soon as I got in from work, only to find a discount voucher for protein powder or an electricity bill from April to June three years in the past. Sometimes, the bills were headed up with fat red letters threatening debt collection agencies if the outstanding sum wasn’t paid by blah blah blah. This didn’t scare me because if they came, I’d tell them that two years ago I was living in Yeovil, which was where they should go to find this protein-loving person, because the social had set up a Council flat swap. They’d be so grateful, they might even give me a bonus, or something. Except, no one ever came. And as my life filled up, I stopped opening the letters; I’d just step right over them.

  By the time you started growing inside me, the pile was so high that one evening I rushed in, bursting for a pee, and tripped right over it. Stuffing the letters into the bin, I noticed that the ones on the top didn’t just say ‘The Occupier’: they were addressed to me. The bank, the water company, the Council. I owed them all money, apparently. The bad thing was, I couldn’t pay them. What with all the turquoise stuff I’d bought then chucked out, and then, seeing as I wasn’t spending half the week at the Holiday Inn any more, having to spend more on electric and on food, I was constantly balancing on the edge of my overdraft. Have you ever balanced on the edge of anything? Like tried to stand up straight on a tall, skinny wall? You’ve got to hold out your arms, focus on one still point, concentrate. For a minute or two it’s OK, but eventually, your brain gets tired and your body gets bored, and you fall off. That’s how it was with my overdraft.

  ‘Chantelle, can you give me any more shifts?’ It took me weeks to get around to asking this, but I did it.

  ‘Why? You broke?’

  ‘Nah, it’s just . . . I want to save up.’

  ‘Save for what?’

  ‘Just. Stuff.’

  ‘You been acting weird recently. I mean, weirder than usual. You got some new foundation or something? You’re a weird colour.’

  For the past month, I’d been either throwing up or looking for a toilet or a bowl or a sink or a bin where I could do it without pissing people off. It wasn’t like normal throwing up, where you do it and then you feel better; it was bright yellow and it made me feel worse. Chantelle was right: my face had gone a weird colour, too.

  ‘Can’t really give you any more shifts than you’ve already got, but if any of those stoners wimp out at the last minute, I’ll let you know.’

  ‘What do you do when your money runs out?’

  Chantelle frowned. ‘The best thing,’ she said, ‘is to borrow from a friend. Them pay day loans – DON’T ever go to them. They’re evil. Like, proper evil.’

  ‘Why?’ I said. ‘What do they do?’

  She shook her head. ‘You don’t wanna know. What I’m saying is, ask someone b
ut not just anyone – someone who has money and who owes you something.’

  The answer was simple: your dad. He was the only person I knew with money, the only one who owed me something. And he’d pay up, of course he would; he wasn’t a bad person, he was just confused, and he’d do the right thing when he found out about you, of course he would. So there was really no reason to watch my spending.

  When I wasn’t too sick or tired to think, I’d think up things to say to your dad:

  There’s something I need to tell you.

  You remember all those bits of you that you left inside me? They’re growing into another person.

  In six months’ time a brand new human is going to pop out of my body and into the world. And it’s yours. And I’m going to need money for a pushchair and nappies and Babygros and baby socks and all the other things that a brand new human needs.

  You should see what this baby is doing to my boobs! I’ve gone from a 32A to a 34B. They would look good in your hands. :)

  We’ll teach it philosophy! We’ll read it tons of books. It’s going to be a proper brainbox. So best start thinking up clever names to call it! Although promise me you won’t buy it one of those slogan T-shirts. There’s nothing worse than a baby in a slogan T-shirt. Except maybe, being away from you and your laugh and the things I’d say just so I could hear it.

  Aside from being sick, I was exhausted. 100% exhausted, 100% of the time. Keeping my eyes open and managing to say basic things like, would you like a Large, Extra Large, or Jumbo popcorn, and, that’ll be £11.60 please, used all the energy I had; even thinking about getting in touch with your dad wiped me out.

  ‘Hey, it’s my birthday next Friday,’ Chantelle said, in the middle of all this. ‘You coming, yeah?’

  ‘Not sure. I’ve got . . . plans.’

  ‘You? Plans?’

  ‘Yeah. Why can’t I have plans?’

  She shrugged. ‘You get back with Phil or something?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then what you up to?’

  ‘Just . . . stuff.’ I couldn’t explain that I’d be busy lying in bed, praying I wouldn’t throw up, because that would lead to her asking why. I didn’t have the energy to make another excuse up. Instead, I walked into Screen Three even though she hadn’t told me to. The Orange Wednesday advert was on. I sat on an empty chair at the back and closed my eyes. The adverts were stupidly loud but I’d heard them so many times, they were easy to block out; I could just about hear that good inside voice, the one that’s always one step ahead of the rest of me, and what it said was: There will come a point when it will be obvious, you know. So you might as well just tell Chantelle and Phil and everyone else right now. The voice was right, and I knew it was right. But my eyes were already shutting, and the other thing I knew was that by the time I woke up from my nap, the voice and all its knowing would be gone.

  The letters kept coming and you kept growing – you’d been growing in me for three and a half months, the doctor said, so it was likely you’d stick around for the full nine – and if I didn’t tell your dad soon, it would be a pay day loan or . . . But there was no or. No choice.

  On the night of Chantelle’s birthday bash, the letters turned into phone calls: ‘Is this Ms Mitchell? Have you not been receiving our letters? You’re five months behind on Council tax. Your discount expired three months ago and you hadn’t set up a direct debit, so . . .’ Apparently, they’d given me a whole six months to ‘get myself on my feet’; now I was expected to pay every month, the same as everyone else. I didn’t tell the woman that I wasn’t on my feet just then; I was lying flat on my back, wondering when I was going to start feeling normal. I hung up and tried my best to erase the conversation from my mind. I couldn’t, though; even snuggling under Marcia’s fleece blanket didn’t help. I rang Chantelle.

  ‘Your birthday thing still on?’

  She was silent for an unusually long time. Then she breathed in sharply and said: ‘I thought you had plans.’

  Her voice was muffled by the boom-boom-shout of lots of people having lots of fun in a space that wasn’t meant to have much of either. It didn’t make me feel good.

  ‘Chantelle . . .’

  I wanted to tell her I was sorry. I wanted to tell her about the letters and about your dad and about this voice, new yet old, strange yet familiar, which told me everything would be OK if I stayed away from other people.

  ‘Yeah, whatever. Come if you wanna come. Just bring something good to drink.’ Then she hung up.

  Getting out of bed and of my flat and of the estate and down the road and into the offie and out of the offie and up the stairs to Chantelle’s flat was about ten times harder than it used to be. By the time I reached her front door, my eyes were fluttering shut. Yet I couldn’t help feeling proud of myself. Proud for ignoring the voices. Maybe acting like everything was OK would mean they would be.

  Some girl in a bright pink catsuit opened the door and batted her fake eyelashes at me like she was the opposite of impressed. ‘CHANTELLE! SOME GIRL’S HERE.’ Then she pushed her way into the crowded hall and was gone.

  There were so many people in the flat, I couldn’t see the sofa or the table or the fireplace which was crammed with weird cardboard things the kids had made at school; I couldn’t see Chantelle or her kids; even the Chuckle Sisters weren’t around; the ground shook with music and with footsteps and with words, and I couldn’t move without brushing someone’s elbow or hair extension or bum or boob; yet I didn’t know any of them and they didn’t know me; my heart was beating too fast, my thoughts moving too slow; this place had nothing to do with the places I’d been before and I needed to leave.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  But I was trapped behind a wall of sweaty backs and none of them heard.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  The Lambrini was still cold, so I pressed it to my head. I reminded my heart that I wasn’t running; there was no need to beat that fast, no need. I closed my eyes and tried to remember how to breathe.

  ‘You all right, sweetheart?’ One of the sweaty backs had turned into a smile topped off with bright blue eyes and hair that was either wet with sweat or with gel.

  He must’ve seen the nooo stretched across my face, because the next thing was, he put his arm around my shoulder and with a magic power no one has ever shared with me, got people to move out of his way, so we could go into the kids’ bedroom. The room was crammed with shoes, bags, scarves and coats. No people. I flopped on to the bottom bunk. It smelt of Sharina. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine her lying next to me, me reading her a story; I tried, but I couldn’t see it: that part of my life felt far away and before I knew it, tears were bulging behind my eyeballs.

  ‘Ain’t seen you before.’

  The mattress sank as he sat down beside me.

  ‘How you know Chanters?’

  I opened my eyes. ‘Chanters?’ I’d never heard anyone call her that.

  ‘Yeah, that’s what we called her, back in the day.’

  ‘Where are the kids?’

  ‘The kids?’ He wrinkled his nose as if I’d said, ‘Where’s the bin?’ ‘Dunno.’ He wriggled closer. ‘You’re the one I wanna know about. You’re cute.’

  He was the kind of guy the Chuckle Sisters would say was fiiiittt. The kind of guy who’d get to the semi-finals of X Factor whether or not he could sing. But I didn’t care. I closed my eyes. ‘Only thing there is to know about me is, I’m bare tired.’

  ‘Oh,’ he lay down next to me, ‘I’m sure there’s more than that.’

  I adopted the same survival tactic as with the bills: if I pretended he wasn’t there, sooner or later, he wouldn’t be.

  Except it didn’t work; not with him, not with the bills, not with anything.

  He rubbed his body right up against mine. Then his hand crept under my top and all the way up my stomach, to my boob, which was super-sensitive, and I shouted out, ‘Fuck.’

  ‘Ssh.’ He jammed his other hand under the waistband of my j
eans. ‘You like this?’

  ‘Get off!’

  The more I shouted, the harder he pressed on top of me; eventually, I gave up. It’s not happening it’s not happening it’s not happening it’s always happening what’s the big deal?

  ‘What the fuck?’ Chantelle’s voice. It was definitely Chantelle’s voice.

  The guy climbed off me and rolled on to the floor. There was Chantelle, wine bottle in hand, the door wide open behind her, and other women already crowding around, sticking their necks in, making faces like, What’s going on? And, how am I gonna tell this story later?

  ‘Beth? Dan? What’s going on?’

  ‘He –’

  ‘Little Beth here,’ he said, turning away from me, ‘she needed a lie down. So I said I’d help her. Didn’t I? And didn’t she like that?’

  ‘OUT! Get out. Now.’

  Watching him scurry away from her, I wondered how she did it; how she could turn him from this big, scary creature into a pathetic small one. Except I never got a chance to ask because, the moment she’d slammed the door on those gossip-hungry faces, she went off on one: ‘Of all the guys here, you had to choose Dan? I mean, seriously? You knew we were getting back together. You knew and still . . .’

  But I didn’t know. I didn’t know Dan was Sharina’s dad. I didn’t know they were starting to get back together. I swore she never told me, swore she never showed me a photo of him, but she kissed her teeth and then she said all this stuff about how she’d sort of thought I was a slut to begin with but she’d given me a chance because I was smarter than everyone else at the Odeon and I made her laugh. ‘For a while, I even thought I could count on you. I thought . . . Oh, but it don’t matter because it’s obvious now that I can’t. No way. You’re as bad as I first thought . . . You just care about getting what you want and that’s it.’

  I laughed. ‘Like you don’t.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It means, how come you can say whatever the hell you want about other people but no one can ever say what they want about you? Like how come you can say how I got no arse and how Lisa’s spot looks like a second nose but we can’t say that you’re a fat bitch?’