by P. K . Lynch
The other two looked at him blankly.
‘That’s what you said,’ he reminded Sissy. ‘Said you’d move to London. That night with the fire. What are you, chicken now?’
‘No,’ said Sissy, her tone and expression indicating the exact opposite.
‘Come on then,’ said Cam, who had toyed privately with the idea ever since it was mentioned. ‘What else is there? Trust me, the jobs here are shit. What you gonna do instead? Go back to school? College for Dummies?’
‘Of course not,’ muttered Rik, who had been thinking that exact thing.
They were sitting on the bench by the boathouse in the park. The summer sky was low and the clouds were heavy with rain. The idea seemed to sparkle and glow as its feasibility grew.
‘I’ve an uncle down there,’ said Rik. ‘So my parents might be all right with it.’
‘Screw your parents,’ said Cam. ‘Are you a man or a mouse?’
‘Yeah, screw your parents,’ said Sissy, a smile breaking over her face. ‘We’re adults now.’
‘Technically speaking, no, we’re not. Not me and Sissy anyway,’ said Rik.
‘Shut up, you,’ said Cam, wrapping an arm around Rik’s neck and rubbing his knuckles into his hair.
‘Yeah, Rik, shut up!’ laughed Sissy. She dived on top of both of them and they rolled across the damp grass, exuberant with the wonder of their imminent independence.
It was a subdued leaving party that gathered one evening in the bus station, the lights of which created a halo that diluted the midnight murk of the sky above. Anne insisted that she and Danny be present to wave Sissy off, and spent the journey there peppering the conversation with hopeful contributions such as: ‘It’s never too late to change your mind,’ and, ‘London of all places.’
When they pulled in, Sissy jumped out and headed straight to Cam, who stood shivering in his thin jacket, having made his own way there.
While Danny offloaded the bags and went to park the car, Jude and Anne loitered, unsure of what to do with themselves. Only Rik’s parents seemed to feel they deserved their space there, seeing their seventeen-year-old off on the night bus to London, showering him with enough affection to last him until Christmas when they assumed he’d be home. They would have preferred him to take a daytime train, but the bus was cheap and Cam in particular had to make the pennies last. He cut a lonely figure, only confessing once safely on the bus that he hadn’t actually explained to his mother he was leaving – just fucking hassle – but he’d call in the morning before she had a chance to worry.
From his mother’s arms, Rik cast a sheepish smile at Sissy and Cam, who skulked well away from the main group.
‘Wee birdies flying the nest, eh?’ Danny’s voice seemed far too loud and jovial for the occasion. ‘What d’you make of that then, eh?’
‘Rik has a good head on his shoulders,’ Mrs Sutton smiled tearfully.
‘We’re not worried,’ said Mr Sutton, ruffling Rik’s hair. ‘Are we, son?’
‘Not him you need to be worried about,’ murmured Danny, taking a step towards them and nodding sideways towards Cam.
‘Yes, well,’ said Mrs Sutton, planting a last kiss on her son’s cheek.
‘Sissy, come and kiss your grandma,’ called Danny.
Anne received her kiss in silence, neither able to look the other straight in the eye. Then Sissy turned to her mother.
‘You’ve got your duvet,’ Jude said, causing Sissy to raise the bin bag in mortified confirmation.
‘Good luck getting that through morning rush hour,’ joked Mr Sutton. Sissy scowled at the bin bag. Another of Anne’s ideas forced upon her.
The driver boarded the bus and the engine growled into life. Jude peered into her daughter’s eyes, hoping something familiar would resurrect before it was too late, but Sissy, disturbed by her mother’s sudden intensity, couldn’t return her gaze.
‘All aboard!’ called Danny, who couldn’t rest while surrounded by all that potential for emotion.
Overcome by a desperate desire to pack into her daughter all possible drops of goodness before she left, Jude seized Sissy and whispered hoarsely into her ear: ‘You’re going to do so well. I wish your dad could see you now.’
Tears from Sissy now, and perhaps she would have replied if Danny hadn’t inserted himself between them – don’t miss the bus now, hahaha – and ushered her to the open door, away from her mother.
‘Attagirl! Show them what you’re made of. Donnelly through and through.’
He took the bin bag from her and shoved it into the belly of the bus, along with all the rucksacks and pull-alongs. Then he gave her a bear hug so fierce it took Sissy’s breath away.
‘I don’t want you to worry about your mum,’ Danny said in a low voice. ‘We’ll take care of her.’
His words landed like arrows; sharp, incisive, laced with insinuation.
‘I think she can take care of herself,’ Sissy said, pulling herself free of his vice-like embrace. ‘She’s a grown woman.’
Surprise rippled almost imperceptibly across Danny’s face. Shocked by her own words, Sissy’s mouth opened and closed. She tried to pass it off as a joke, laughing as though to say, ‘I’m kidding! Everything’s fine!’ but as with everything else, the damage was already done. She hurried to the soft darkness of the bus and took her seat beside Cam and Rik, forcing herself to wave out of the window. She saw Danny walk back towards Jude, his slumped shoulders mirroring hers, his head moving regretfully from one side to the next. She saw her mother lift her hand to her lips and throw a kiss towards the departing bus. She saw Mr and Mrs Sutton, motionless, holding onto each other for support, and behind them, the tiny figure of her grandmother, whose power only seemed to grow as her frailty increased.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Flies in London
Their house was half way down a long line of terraces. Two-up, two-down, downstairs bathroom, decked courtyard for a garden. Sissy and Rik took the upstairs rooms, leaving the tiny living room with its worn sofa for Cam because ‘That’s what you get when you ain’t on the contract, bro.’
Despite the Suttons’ reservations, Rik had convinced them of the merit in allowing Cam to stay with them, despite his name not being on the contract. ‘He’ll paint everything, fix anything. You know how useless I am. Please, I need him,’ he’d wheedled.
The kitchen was the largest room and had a table where they’d gather round to discuss their day, break open beer, share ideas, solve the world’s problems. They were high on possibility and unpacked in a hurry, keen to start the urgent business of ‘really living’. They ordered pizza and sent Cam to buy beer from the shop at the top of the road.
A gay couple in their forties lived one side, and a single woman called May on the other. It didn’t take long for them to work out May was an alcoholic. They averted their eyes as they passed her in the street, her clothes dishevelled and her underwear on show, and sniggered about it later. Even streaks of black mascara staining her cheeks didn’t provoke sympathy. She was old and a failure. They were young and bold. They would change everything.
May lived with three cats and a dog, until her Glaswegian boyfriend moved in, bringing with him a beautiful blonde husky that prompted Cam to knock on their door to offer dog-walking services. The answer was always an aggressive no. The boyfriend was the worst stereotype of a Glaswegian, the kind of guy normally only found on television. Small eyes, big belly, bad attitude, he drove a pickup truck for a living and drank super lager on his days off, judging by the number of empty tins that were thrown into the garden. Over time, little islands of dog shit began to appear in their garden along with the tins.
One day Cam and Sissy were playing cards at the table when a shriek from Rik called them upstairs. They ran up to find him perched on the end of his bed, looking out the window.
‘He is so disgusting,’ Rik said.
‘We know that already,’ said Sissy, joining him on the bed. ‘What is it this time?’
Outside, the boyfri
end was in the process of setting up a barbecue, using its metal legs to nudge aside any intrusive piles of faeces. Mesmerised by the horror of it, the three teenagers watched for an hour as the boyfriend navigated his way through the maze of shit, delivering coals, lighter fluid, meat, to his cooking point. Then he fired it up and, wearing a string vest, long shorts, white socks and Crocs, he flipped burgers with a fag hanging out his mouth, the ash falling or flicked into the burning coals. Occasionally he chucked a burger onto the ground for the two dogs who stepped among the mess with low tails and delicate paws.
‘I honestly didn’t think people like that existed,’ Rik said.
‘Those poor fucking dogs,’ muttered Cam. ‘I should report him.’
‘I saw her out in the garden the other day,’ said Sissy. ‘She sprayed it with air freshener.’
‘Fuck off did she,’ said Rik.
‘Or it could have been fly spray, I suppose.’
The flies paid no heed to the rickety wooden fence dividing the properties. Soon, the back garden was designated a no-go area. Not long after that, they agreed to keep the windows closed as well.
Sissy began to feel the walls close in on her. Rik’s uncle had organised a sales job for him in a mobile phone shop. He was on a fast-track management programme, though the work was dull and the money didn’t go far. His first pay cheque left him worrying he’d be sharing with Cam and Sis a little longer than he’d anticipated. To everyone’s surprise, Cam found a job within the first week.
‘But it’s only labouring,’ Sissy frowned. ‘You hated that when you did it before.’
‘The weather’s better here,’ Cam shrugged. ‘You have any luck yet?’
She shook her head and glanced away, uncomfortable with Cam’s soft scrutiny. Every morning, she was woken by the industrious sound of her housemates readying themselves for work. It wasn’t until she was sure they’d both gone that she dragged herself downstairs and sat watching morning television, waiting for Phil and Holly to project their faux happiness onto the nation. Happiness on steroids, Cam had described them, but Sissy didn’t see it. She stared blankly at the screen, drinking tea, eating toast, until the relentless barking from next door forced her into the shower and out the front door.
That moment of stepping outside gave her a lift every time. The heat, the light. She revelled in the crumbly newness of everything. At home, the estate was modern, clean, maintained. Here, nothing was uniform. Streets were a messy trail of pebble-dashing, or red brickwork, or fake wooden cladding, gardens might be green or paved, bins plain or painted, windows with blinds or nets or shutters or nothing at all. Pigeons pecked at rice left for them outside number 48. A pungent smell of skunk served as a gateway out of their road. ‘Ah, Bisto!’ became their catchphrase every time they walked through it.
She spent her days walking up and down the bustling length of the market, stopping at stalls, picking up items and turning them over, pretending she was actually interested in their fake designer gear, perfume, mobiles, paint, brushes, all manner of plastic toys, but she returned them all with an apologetic smile. The stallholders got to know her and dismissed her as an odd-ball, while all the time she was watching, waiting for something, she didn’t know what. She tried counting all the different languages she heard and quickly felt foolish and parochial. Huge flat breads in the Turkish shop drew her curiosity, but to actually enter the shop and deal with the gregarious owner remained a task beyond her. The insides of shops spilled out onto the street, unfamiliar fruits and food stuffs piled high in crates, cellophane-wrapped meats in lurid marinades glistened alarmingly in chill boxes beneath the sun. All of it – the smells, sounds, sights, the fizzing, aggressive energy of the place – fascinated her, but when the market thinned out and stallholders began to pack up, she would fall almost by accident into Sainsbury’s and buy something microwavable from the yellow sticker section for that night’s tea.
Sometimes she went to the tube to study the underground map. It was there she could make sense of where she was. Only eleven stops to Victoria. From there, only another nine hours or so home. The journey that had seemed so intimidating when they disembarked the bus that first morning now appeared eminently doable, tempting, in fact. She liked to stand close to the escalator and watch the steps as they disappeared downward, almost like falling off a cliff, she thought, or a wave returning to the sea.
Dear Sissy,
I feel I must alert you to the fact your mother has gone from bad to worse. She rarely leaves her bedroom. She misses your father terribly, as we all do. Father Lyons is a regular visitor, however, and God willing, we will pull through.
Your cousins Lucy and Emma continue to excel. We are so proud of them and all their achievements. Emma has a difficult time ahead, deciding which university will best serve her interests. She’s quite the catch, it seems, as several institutions vie for her attention. Uncle Danny, of course, will be lost without her, but Lucy will continue to be a source of comfort. I worry how he will cope when Lucy’s time comes. Still, we have a couple of years before that dark day!
We had some unpleasant news. Your father’s headstone had begun to tilt sideways, having not been secured properly in the first instance. It was quite the problem to rectify since all the paperwork is in your mother’s name and she – well, she could not be provoked to care, it seems. You’d think the company would be more understanding, but no, they wanted nothing to do with it. Eventually Danny stepped in and they were persuaded to allow him to bring the paperwork to your mother for signing. To think they expected your mother to go into their office herself. They’d have waited a long time. In the meantime, your father’s headstone sinking into the ground a little more each day.
I suppose this is getting a little morbid for your tastes. Sometimes I think it’s my age, but then I think, no, it’s real life and some of us have to deal with it.
I trust you’re having a good time of it in London. I’ve never been, myself. Your grandfather could rarely be persuaded to travel anywhere, much less to London, a place full of foreigners! And that’s before they started letting everyone in! Do please be careful, dear. We couldn’t bear any more bad news.
I enclose a photograph of your father’s gravestone for your perusal.
Love, Grammy
They came through the letter box on a regular basis, sometimes three a week. Your mother this, your mother that, your cousins this, your cousins that. She read them hungrily, desperate for news of home, to feel connected to something outside of herself, but between the lines of each letter she detected a stronger message: you have failed us, abandoned us, shamed us, you are therefore Not A Good Person. She found it was tolerable as long as there was proof they remembered who she was.
Sissy put the letter with the others, along with the letter she’d written for Peter, which remained stubbornly above ground, undelivered. Every day, she checked and it was still there. Of course it was. But how do you send a letter to a dead man? Its presence gnawed. The ragged paper edge where intrusive fingers had dug in and ripped out the secrets within. She didn’t dare reread her words in case they revealed a person so infantile and selfish that no one in the world could love her again the way her dad had done.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Scattered Islands
With Sissy gone, Jude found even less reason to persist with a daily routine. She resided almost permanently in her room, trying to forget about the guilt-inducing presence of her mother-in-law downstairs, and the world waiting beyond. Every time the phone rang, she stopped breathing and stared at the flashing LED display until Anne picked up downstairs. In the days and weeks after Peter’s death, they’d been inundated with calls. She’d ignored them all. Now the phone was a constant companion in case Sissy rang, which she rarely did. Thank God for Caller ID.
‘You should get on Facebook,’ Anne said, and she knew she ought to. One day soon she would. When she could face the rigmarole of passwords and account names and whatever else was required, she’d get on
Facebook and Twitter and Snapchat and Instagram and all the ways people liked to communicate these days, or, more specifically, how Sissy liked to communicate these days, if she liked to communicate at all, which seemed unlikely given her lengthy silences between calls.
It’s normal, Jude told herself, quelling the deep stirring of unease that came along with thoughts of Sissy. Normal for kids to branch out on their own. She’ll be back.
But what if she wasn’t and Jude had lost them both? She rolled over onto her front, burying herself deeper into the bed. Downstairs, Anne pottered in her usual loud style, sending pointed messages up the stairs with each new domestic task undertaken. Guilt upon guilt. Jude should be down there looking after her ageing mother-in-law, but she’d been up here so long now. She didn’t have the energy to cope with Anne’s vigour, and, no doubt, her delight and wonder at seeing Jude finally out of bed, like some modern-day Lazarus. If only she could re-enter the world by degrees, step by step, but she knew she’d been hiding too long for that. There had been too many ignored knocks on the door, too many untended visitors. She’d spun herself into a deep cocoon and, like some exotic butterfly, she couldn’t emerge without putting on a show.
She loved this bed. For years, she and Peter had slept on an old sofa bed Patrick had redirected from St Vincent de Paul.
‘No one else would have it,’ Patrick had said, when asked if there weren’t worthier recipients. So they’d received it, and spent many an uncomfortable night until they’d finally pulled the money together for a real bed. They’d done it properly. Paid off all the debts, worked hard for a deposit, got the house, looked after Sissy, made sure she was comfortable before even thinking about themselves. The trip to the bed shop had been a serious one. Did they want a soft mattress or firm? The salesperson tried to up sell them to a king-size. It was beyond their budget and Peter, embarrassed, struggled to decline. It’s a romantic decision, he told the saleswoman. They were used to each other’s presence at night, they didn’t want a huge space between them. Jude was glad of the smaller bed now Peter was gone. His empty space was so much closer to her than it might have been. If they’d still had the sofa bed, she knew she would never have folded it up ever again.