by James Hannah
‘Oh, hey,’ she says, reaching down and rooting around in her bag, ‘I’ve got something I wanted to show you.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘I went into college this morning, to try and stay in touch and let them know what’s going on–’
‘Good thinking.’
‘–and I was talking to my tutor, and I’ve managed to start up with this.’
She retrieves a small, curiously familiar little shape. A scrap of oatmeal-coloured crochet, slung over a hook, and attached to a small ball of wool. ‘I wanted to try and – try and get my stitches to be even slightly as good as you’ve got on your blanket there.’
I take the shape from her and turn it about in my hands. It’s so comforting, the fledgling idea, the work in progress.
‘Oh, wow, yeah. It’s really good,’ I say. ‘Lovely tension.’ I nod at her, impressed.
‘It’s good, when you’ve got so much going on in your head, to have something for your hands to do. Something to focus on.’
It’s lovely, just these few seconds, she’s there, open-faced, setting her cares aside, completely immersed in what she’s showing me. And for a few seconds I’m swept there too.
‘So,’ I say, handing back the crochet, ‘how are things?’
She takes it from me, and looks down at it, kind of smiling. ‘Yep, pretty bad.’
‘Yeah?’
‘I’ve been trying to make some preparations. Organizing whatever bits of the funeral I can, trying to get all that sorted. Quite a lot to learn and do. Dad just sort of – he can’t do it.’
I find myself lowering my eyes to allow her to swallow down another spoonful of sorrow in some sort of privacy.
‘It’s just – I don’t know,’ she says. ‘It’s really hard, not knowing how to do this stuff.’
‘Yeah.’
‘I try to get to sleep at night, but my mind’s turning over and over. You know: what if I forget to do something, what if I forget to sign the right bit of paper, what if the coffin’s wrong, what if it’s not what she wants. What if the food doesn’t arrive for the after-party. And it’s all– she’s not even gone yet. I don’t know when all of this is supposed to kick into action. It could be tomorrow, it could be weeks away.’
‘And your dad’s not … doing anything?’
She takes in a great breath and makes an effort to pull herself together.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ she says, and laughs. ‘You don’t need all this.’
‘No, no, don’t apologize.’
She purses her mouth, does a little gulp.
I can feel now my breath getting shorter. I hung up that oxygen mask too soon. It’s no good, I’m going to have to take another hit. I sit myself up with difficulty.
‘Sorry, can I do anything?’ says Amber, standing. She makes to shift the pillows to prop me up better. ‘Or … should I … leave?’
I accept the mask from her, inexpertly rake the elastic over my head.
I look up at her and frown, and she looks a bit shocked.
‘Sorry,’ I say, muted in plastic.
‘No, no.’
‘Looks worse than it is.’
Resigned, I adjust the mask in its place and let it settle in, settle me.
She sits once more and just waits for me to reacclimatize. Look at her, her eyes are so tired and puffy.
‘I’m really sorry to see someone like you going through all this,’ I say.
She raises her eyebrows. I wonder for a moment if she’s going to cry, but she simply exhales and says, ‘Yeah. It’s a bit shit. I just don’t want her to be in pain any more.’
‘They won’t let her be in pain. Not really.’
‘That’s all that matters. But – it feels so wrong … wanting it to be over.’
‘No, no. Not wrong.’
She stares across the room, a lost expression in her eyes.
‘I mean, she’s been amazing. These last few weeks I think she’s been trying to protect me from knowing how bad she was. Didn’t want me to worry. It’s such a selfless thought, you know?’
‘Sheila told me she thought your mum was an absolutely lovely lady. Kind and uncomplaining. She really seems to like her.’
‘When Mum told me the cancer had come back, she actually said sorry.’ Amber breathes a quick, quiet little laugh. ‘I thought, how can you say sorry for something like that? But she said to me, “I’m sorry to mess up your studies and make you worry.” I think she liked to reduce it to a few little things she could be sorry about.’
‘It’s a lot to take on,’ I say. ‘She’d want you to take such care of yourself, wouldn’t she?’
Amber purses her lips and looks down.
‘I know what it’s like,’ I say. ‘Mind racing. Feeling trapped. Maybe – if you just – stick to the small stuff. Practical stuff.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Forget what-ifs. What-ifs aren’t yours to control.’
‘No, no.’
‘If you sort all the practical stuff – the big stuff tends to get done too.’
‘Yeah,’ she says, frowning down at herself.
‘What’s on this afternoon’s agenda?’
‘I’ve got to sort out flowers, and what readings there are going to be, the music. I don’t know what she liked. It feels like I don’t know anything about her, even the smallest thing.’
She looks so lost. She’s too young. She needs a dad.
She needs her mum.
‘And there’s nothing your dad can do to help?’
‘He doesn’t know anything. He didn’t know her. He spent all his time off at work and – he wouldn’t be any use.’
I can feel her anger simmering away, barely beneath the surface.
‘Do you mind if I say something?’
‘No, go on.’
‘Making all the decisions, it’s too much. I know it might seem easier–’
‘It is.’
‘But it’s not.’ I lift the mask from my face, hold it in my hand a moment. ‘I mean, say you set everything up … you have the funeral you think she wanted … what about after? You’re left angry at your dad because you let him drift through it.’
Amber glares down at her little scrap of crochet, turning it around and about.
‘You’ve got to plug him into this.’
She looks up and tautens her mouth.
‘And it’s not … it’s not fair … to ask you to do this, but … he needs guiding through it.’
I’m sure she’s listening to me.
‘He’s got – what – twenty-five years’ worth of life with your mum?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Quarter of a century. That’s a lot to ignore.’
‘Yeah,’ she says, reluctantly.
‘Even tiny little choices. Like, what music did he and she like? What–’ another pull on the oxygen ‘–what were they like before you were born?’
‘Yeah–’ I can see her eyes mulling over the possibilities.
‘Ask him: get three possible readings. Even if he says he can’t. Give him a day to do it. And you can decide between you, yeah?’
‘Only he won’t know that.’
‘But then – he has to go and ask his friends. His friends who knew your mum. It’ll be his task. You just set him off.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ This seems to ease her brow a little.
‘You might be surprised. It’s a great … it’s a great opportunity. For everyone to remember her. In ways you might not have thought of.’
‘Hallo, lovey!’ says Sheila, waggling a bunch of lunch cards as she breezes into my room. ‘Have you chosen your lunch yet?’
‘Mm, yes – could I try a bit of the cod, please? No promises.’
‘Oh right,’ she says, swiping up my card and looking it up and down. ‘Bit more adventurous today?’
‘Yeah, something like that. I’ve just had Amber come to see me. We had a chat.’
‘So I saw – how’s she doing?’
‘She’s a sweet girl
. So much on her plate.’
‘Hasn’t she? But she’s got her head screwed on. A real smasher. One of the lovely things about this job, you get to see the real good in people.’
‘Yeah. Sad to see her so young, though.’
Sheila bites the edge of the lunch cards. It dawns on me that she must see worse. Much, much worse. ‘Still,’ she says, ‘I’m really proud of you for taking the time to try a bit of mixing. I told you it’s a tonic, didn’t I, meeting a few different people?’
‘Yeah, yeah, it’s been nice.’
‘It’s good to have visitors now and again. What are you up to on your A to Z? You’ll nearly have it finished by now, I should think.’
‘I’m on G.’
‘G? Blimey, talk about taking your time. What have you got for G then?’ she says, frowning out the window. ‘There’s gut, groin …’
‘Gonads.’
‘Oh my God, it’s all the rude stuff, isn’t it?’
‘We used to have a game at school called Gonad.’
‘Oh, right?’
‘You know, that age where you think every vaguely anatomical word is a swear word.’
‘Little boys, they’re awful for it. Terrible gigglers.’
‘Yeah, well we used to think gonad was this majorly sophisticated swear word, and we had this game where we had to shout it out in class. Well, someone would say it quietly, then the next person would have to say it a bit louder, and the next one even louder, you know.’
‘Oh, right. So we know what kind of a little boy you were then.’
Gut
‘I’M GETTING A GUT,’ I say, looking sadly into your bedroom mirror. ‘I never thought I’d get a gut.’
‘You haven’t got a gut.’
‘I have. Look, it’s there.’
‘Where?’
‘There.’
‘That’s a stomach.’
‘It’s a gut.’
‘Look, I’m a nurse. I’m practically qualified. It’s a stomach. You’re as neurotic as your sister, do you know that?’
‘No I’m not.’
You hold up the iron and blow a dismissive cloud of steam at me, before dumping it back down on the ironing board and continuing to nose around the buttons of your uniform.
I turn and indulge myself in another look at my ugliness. I was always proud when I was a teenager to be able to hitch up my T-shirt, and see – well, never quite a six-pack, but at least a pure, taut line from belt buckle to breastbone. I could suck it in and make a cave. See myself as a skeleton. Is vanity so bad? I just want to look my best, and stay that way for ever.
You finish with the iron, and hang your uniform over the wardrobe door before taking your familiar position before the mirror.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I hate getting older.’
‘Well, twenty-eight,’ you tut. ‘Ten years past your prime.’
‘I hate being diabetic. It makes me feel old.’
‘Old’s got nothing to do with it. And you’re not fat.’
‘It’s not like I wanted to have diabetes,’ I say, jiggling my love handles, and then smoothing them with flat palms, as if that’s going to get rid of them. ‘But then part of me used to think it was quite nice to have a thing. Is that bad?’
You do a kind of Gallic shrug with your mouth. ‘Everyone wants a bit of attention once in a while.’
‘Yeah, but I used to play up to it really badly. I mean, really badly. I wouldn’t eat properly, and I’d miss out on shots, even if I was feeling ropey.’
You say nothing, draw your fingernails through your hair, and glance up at me in the mirror.
‘It started to feel like, the more tired I felt, the happier I was. And the thinner the better. You can get to enjoy that stuff.’
‘But you’re not doing that now though, are you?’ you say, turning and looking directly at me. ‘You’re not missing shots now.’
‘No.’ Mostly no.
‘Because I’ve already watched my dad destroy his life, and I don’t intend to watch my boyfriend do it too.’
‘Look,’ I say, grabbing my gut and tugging it at you. ‘Does it look like it?’
‘You’re not fat! You’re man-shaped.’ You come over and lay your hands under my shirt. ‘I love your tummy. I love you.’
‘Yeah, well.’ I’m unconvinced.
‘Anyway,’ you say, slapping my bum and sitting down to pull on a pair of tights, ‘stop being so down on yourself.’ You shimmy your thumbs upwards to distribute the denier, and snap the elastic at the waistband. ‘If you’re getting fat anywhere, it’s in your head. Why don’t you go out tonight? Go and do something. You haven’t been out with your mates for ages.’
I dump myself down on the bed and wrinkle my nose.
‘I don’t fancy it.’
‘Give Mal a ring. He’ll be glad to see you. He thinks I’m the queen bitch from hell, so he’ll be pleased I’ve let you off the leash for five minutes.’
‘No he doesn’t.’
‘He does, because you haven’t been in touch with him, and he thinks that’s because I won’t let you.’
‘I don’t know, it’d be nice if it was just pubbing and chatting, or going to a gig or whatever, but there’s always the clubbing afterwards. I can’t be bothered, you know?’
You take your uniform off its hanger, and begin buttoning it on.
‘Oh, that reminds me, Do you want me to pick up a zimmer frame for you while I’m at work, Grandpa?’
‘I am getting old. And fat.’
‘Right, that’s it. You’re going out. I don’t want you hanging around, just waiting for me to get home. That’s not what we’re about.’ You pick up my phone and scroll through it. ‘There we go,’ you say, pressing the screen.
Mal Sampson. Calling …
Hair
ONE THING THAT stays with me about Mum’s last weeks is how simply getting her hair washed and done would make her perk up no end. So heartening to see. Now I know how she feels. Jackie sorted me out with fresh pillowcases this morning, and now my hair feels shamefully greasy in contrast. My scalp’s itchy, and I’m sure I must be leaving a stain on the starchy linen. I can’t remember the last time I gave it a proper wash with shampoo. But I can’t just ask for a hairdresser to come in and do it, can I? I’d feel like one of the old ladies.
My whole life I’ve been trying to avoid having embarrassing hair. I always thought I could avoid being like those old pictures of my dad from before I was born where he had the ’tache and the burners with tinted thick-framed glasses and his receding hairline. I would honestly think to myself: how could anyone ever get caught out like that? I would never, ever make that mistake.
And there have been moments in my life when, if I say so myself, I have got it absolutely right. I remember a time, sitting in the car on the way to school, looking in the rear-view mirror, and I’d got my curtain hairdo absolutely perfect – it was exactly the right length, with precisely the right curve to the curtains, just clean enough, but not so clean as to be fluffy, with maybe a couple of artfully stray strands of hair breaking the line to say, Hey, I didn’t have to work too hard at this. It was one of the few occasions I’ve prayed in the utmost seriousness to God: Please, please let this perfect hairstyle be perfect for ever so Helen Worthington will have no choice but to love me for ever.
There it is again: all I’ve ever wanted to do is just look my best, and stay that way for ever. If God existed, I’d be a forty-year-old man with a fourteen-year-old’s curtains.
And then there was Mal. Mal, of course, the new kid at school, fresh blood, fresh meat, fresh hair. Long on top and shaved underneath at the time. I thought it was the coolest thing I’d seen. So I started growing out my curtains almost straight away.
I vaguely knew even then it was kind of a crushy thing to do. But it happens all the time, doesn’t it? Every generation of young lads herds through the same town-centre streets, aping each other’s hairdos, just like my dad did, I suppose.<
br />
I’m sitting on the floor of Laura’s flat, watching Mal play the PlayStation in his dressing gown, and my head is being licked coldly sideways by Laura’s rhythmical brushstrokes.
I can’t believe I’m going ahead and dyeing my hair. This isn’t me. This isn’t the sort of thing I do. It’s sort of brilliant, sort of scary. God, I’m such a child, even at twenty-two. Such a child.
Mal’s sitting there with his hair already brushed and cooking.
‘Hold still, for God’s sake,’ says Laura.
‘It hurts.’
‘Oh, give it a rest,’ she says. ‘This is what women have to put up with all the time. Hold still. It’s supposed to be even all over.’
‘Have you ever done this before?’ I ask Mal, trying to keep the fizz out of my voice. ‘Does it ever go wrong?’
‘How wrong can it go? If you think of some of the kids at school who used to do it.’
I’m a bit pissed.
Is Mal pissed? Sitting there in front on the TV, game controller in hand, he doesn’t seem pissed. He doesn’t seem bothered at all.
Laura’s definitely completely pissed. But she’s the only one who knows how to do this, so hopefully she’ll keep it together. The front room now stinks of the bleach or ammonia or whatever it is she’s slathered on our scalps.
‘Right, that’s you done,’ she says, and stumbles off out of the room and into the bathroom.
I say: ‘I can’t believe we’re doing this.’ As it comes out of my mouth it feels like the sort of thing Kelvin would say. Squealingly naïve.
Mal’s game crashes to a conclusion, and he hands me the control.
‘Ahh, it’s good. You should try anything once.’
‘Dyeing hair – it’s something other people do.’
‘You reckon?’
‘Yeah. It feels like there are too many parts of my brain saying, I’m going to look like a real dick.’
‘Who cares if you do? It’ll grow out in a fortnight. No one should ever worry about looking like a dick for a fortnight.’
I edge my character along a narrow ridge and hop into the go-kart for the trip down the hill.
‘I’m not like that though,’ I say. ‘I never ever say I want to do this, so I’m going to go ahead and do it, and I don’t care what anyone thinks. You’ve got that, I haven’t.’