Dot

by Araminta Hall

  Debbie raised herself and rubbed her hands over her face. ‘Shit,’ she repeated.

  ‘You’ve puked on the floor, man.’

  ‘Oh God.’

  Clive left the room to use the bathroom. His piss came out a dark and menacing yellow and felt hotter than usual. He splashed cold water on his face and drank greedily from the tap, then he used Debbie’s toothbrush to rid himself of the sensation that someone had shovelled shit into his mouth as he slept. He remembered very little of the night before, just odd flashes like being outside in a thunderstorm. His head rocked on his shoulders and a nausea that he knew wouldn’t leave for hours formed in the pit of his stomach. He opened the cabinet doors next to the sink and found some Nurofen, swallowing two and contemplating a third.

  The smell in the room hit him afresh when he went back in. Debbie had fallen back down, her mouth hanging open so that dribble was escaping on to the pillow. He shook her shoulder. ‘Come on, man, it stinks in here.’

  ‘I can’t move.’

  ‘Shit.’ Clive scanned the room and decided that a few copies of Heat would do the job as well as anything else. He scooped the sick off the floor, releasing more of the acrid smell, which made him retch until his eyes filled with tears. He wrapped the disgusting bundle up a few times and then stuffed it into her bin, which he put outside the door. He couldn’t hear any noises from downstairs, but he didn’t want to risk running into Debbie’s mother and all her jolly questions about the party.

  He was sweating and every time he bent over it felt as if his brain was going to roll out of his stinging eyes, so he opened the window and lay back down on the bed. Debbie’s eyes were open now, red and streaked in black. Her pillow was brown, smeared by her foundation. She smiled.

  ‘Good night anyway.’

  ‘Can’t really remember.’

  ‘You were pretty wasted.’

  ‘Unlike you, right?’

  ‘Nah, just, you know.’

  They lay in silence for a while. Clive didn’t think he could let his body go through this now, all his limbs felt like glass and his heart was heaving uncomfortably. He toyed with the idea of another drink to put the hangover off by a few hours.

  ‘Did you see Kai and Tash?’ Debbie asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘They were going for it. Went back to hers.’

  Debbie always talked about other people; sometimes it made Clive feel dizzy, her ability to be so involved in lives other than her own. He reached for his BlackBerry and flicked on to Facebook: already a couple of people had written about the party, one of their friends had even uploaded some photos. It was hard sometimes to remember that he hadn’t yet become as famous as he knew he would be one day; especially when he was tired or hungover like now he forgot he wasn’t who he thought he was, forgot that he was reading about his own life.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ Debbie said, breaking into his thoughts. ‘Who the fuck invited Mavis and Dot?’

  Clive put his phone back down, looking at the small screen was hurting his eyes. ‘Dunno.’

  ‘How come they came then?’

  ‘I dunno, babe.’ He wished he was asleep.

  She sat up and he could feel the air prickle around them. If he’d been capable of it he’d have stood up and left. ‘It’s just Tash and I bumped into them in the toilet and she said you did.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mavis said you invited them.’

  ‘Shit, Debs. What are you going on about?’ Clive felt too ill to decide what the best approach was to any of this.

  ‘They pissed me off. Standing by the wall all night like the losers they are. And she was so drunk, Mavis. She was caning it and, like, I just thought why the fuck should she drink all our booze and so when they went to the toilet I followed her and asked her what the fuck she was doing there and she looked at me, bold as fucking brass, and says, Oh, didn’t you know, Clive invited us. Made me look like a prize wanker.’

  Clive groaned. ‘Are you seriously gonna do this now?’

  ‘Just answer the fucking question.’

  ‘What fucking question?’

  ‘Did you invite her?’

  ‘No. I mean – maybe. I dunno. I invited everyone in my mobile, maybe I did by accident.’

  Debbie lay back down at this. ‘I hate her and her stupid ginger friend. They think they’re so much better than the rest of us, just because they’re clever.’

  Clive wondered what being clever did mean, but the thought was too much for his addled brain. ‘Don’t sweat it, babe.’

  ‘But Dot was really rude to me. I just commented on how much weight Mavis was carrying and she told me I had a net-curtained future or some shit like that. What d’you think that means?’

  ‘Shit, how should I know, they’re freaks.’ But Clive had to suppress a smile, his head suddenly filled with an image of Debbie peering out of a window from behind net curtains, worried by what people were doing, worried by what others thought of her. He knew he didn’t want to be in the room behind her.

  Then it clicked into place: that was what had been different about Mavis; she’d piled it on. A shiver went through Clive, he hated fat birds. They had no respect for themselves and if you didn’t respect yourself then who the hell was going to respect you? Rappers were all big on respect and so Clive was big on respect as well. Fat men were all right, obviously, lots of rappers were fat, but fat birds were plain wrong. It was a shame, as Mavis had been pretty tidy when he’d got up close and personal with her. He tried to remember when that had been, end of the summer or some time like that. But his head hurt too much and the light was already fading on the day. He thought clouds were gathering outside; the wind coming in through the open window was bitter and he hoped it would snow. He hoped it would snow for days on end, piling up outside so that no one could get in or out. He wanted to lie in this warm bed for ever. To turn on the TV, chat to his mates on Facebook, fuck his girlfriend, eat the food he hadn’t bought in the fridge downstairs and sleep. The thought of the New Year seemed wearisome: 2005. It was a neat number and surely required neat actions. He rolled on to his side. Most of all Clive wanted to sleep.

  12 … Speech

  There was a tatty stack of papers, yellowed and brittle, forged with creases from years of resisting their folds, sitting neatly in a small drawer in the middle of Clarice’s dressing table. The drawer wasn’t locked and anyone could have opened it at any time, but no one else ever had. She took them out to read from time to time, treating them as if they were made of gold and not wood pulp. Clarice knew it was ridiculous to think it, but of course they were more precious to her than gold, more precious than anything else she possessed. Sometimes the words on the paper made her smile, other times cry. She never knew which to expect until she started to read.

  Clarice had only found the papers about ten years before, tucked inside a book of Howie’s which had sat, along with all his other books, on the shelves of his study since he’d moved into the house just after their marriage all those decades ago. Before Howie the study had belonged so resolutely to her father that she would never have been able to imagine Howie occupying it so completely. Sometimes she tried to remember her grandfather occupying the space and at others she worried that it belonged to no one now which meant that there was no one to continue its history into the future. The thought of the house being sold after her death caused her physical pain, a tightness across her throat and chest, so that she had to shut her mind to the young couples she’d seen with skips outside some of the older houses in the village.

  Clarice would never know what had made her so restless the night she found the papers. Never know why her legs twitched as she sat by the fire, never understand why she stood up and opened a door which had been closed for so long the air smelt musty and walking across the room was like swimming through time. Or what drew her to the bookcase, what made her take down that particular book, showering dust as she’d pulled it towards her like fairy powder, tickling her nose, stinging her eyes. T
he book had opened naturally where it held the papers, as of course it would do, but Clarice swore she heard it sigh as it gave up its ghost, as if it had been waiting a very long time for this moment.

  She had sat at Howie’s desk then, which of course was no longer really his but also waiting for someone else to lay claim to it, and unfolded the papers, her heart stopping and then racing, so unprepared was she to see the familiar handwriting again, so out of context and time. She had felt as if he had reached out to her across the years, as if he’d put his arms around her from far away. She’d had to stop for a moment before she read, resting her head on her hands and taking gulps of air into her lungs as she was hit again by a jarring pain, which she recognised all too keenly, as she realised all over again that she was never going to see him again. That Howie was as truly gone as if he’d never existed. Her stomach had felt as empty as if she’d fasted for a month.

  When they told Clarice that Howie was missing she understood her mother for the first time. She felt so alone she ached. But as his absence meant that it was only her and Alice from that moment onwards she also knew that she could not indulge in the luxury of death. Her father was long dead by then and her only living relative was an aunt in Yorkshire who didn’t even come to the memorial service. For much of the first year she wondered if he had felt anything, if he had known that he was going to die as the boom hit or if all of that was pure supposition. Sometimes she imagined his body as it must have looked after a few days, swollen with water and nibbled by fishes. He would come to her in dreams like that; in fact he still did, all those thousands of nights down the line. She wished she had been nicer so that he hadn’t felt the need to sail whenever he wasn’t at work, wished she’d created one of those warm homes which men rush back to, bathing themselves in a golden glow of security. They say there are stages of grief and that one is anger, but the only anger Clarice ever felt was towards herself. She still believed that Howie was the kindest, most gentle person she’d ever met.

  It was, however, also true to say that over the years the words on the papers had come to comfort her. They catapulted her right back to the time they enshrined, so that for all the minutes it took her to read them she was a giddy bride again, hearing her new husband’s firm voice. She knew those words and they encased her heart just as they had done on the night he’d really said them.

  The papers were slightly stained by marks which looked like grease, but Clarice suspected were champagne. They were also worn away at one corner and she shut her eyes and saw him standing in front of her, holding the papers, worrying them at the edges. She imagined him putting the papers into the book, maybe on the night itself, and she wondered if he’d always meant to leave them there, or if he’d randomly placed them inside, meaning to move them another day. Maybe he’d always known, not consciously but in some deep recess of his soul? Maybe nothing we do is truly random? Maybe he’d always meant to speak to her from afar, to come back when he was needed? It made her remember the feeling she’d had on her wedding day, the bliss of feeling linked to another human being for the first time since her mother died. Over time this was the version she’d decided to believe in.

  Start with thanks etc. Remember to say bridesmaids pretty, thanks to vicar, Percy, mother, C’s father, Patsy & Lou for the food. What an amazing house and how excited I am that we’re going to live here, how generous of Charles, how beautiful it looks with the marquees. (Maybe something here about C’s mother missing it all and how she would have loved it – keep that bit brief, don’t want to upset C today, judge it on night.)

  Clarry and I met at a dance, which is so commonplace I almost didn’t mention it. I wanted to make something up. Some exciting adventure, maybe an African safari or a romantic cruise or a daring rescue, because that seemed like a more fitting way for something so momentous to have started occurred. I spent ages wondering about the best way to have met her, even wrote a few down, but then I threw them away because I realised it didn’t matter how we had met, but how we now live our lives. I also realised that I could stand here for ever telling you how perfect our love is and how happy we are today, but that I will sound like every other bridegroom at all the other weddings you’ve no doubt been to this year. The important thing is that Clarry and I know it is true and intend to live the rest of our lives making each other happy.

  As all of you who know Clarry well can testify she can be a touch difficult obstinate. When I asked her to dance at our first meeting she didn’t reply and asked give me an answer, but instead asked me my name. When I told her she looked rather put out, so I said, ‘When I say Howard Cartwright, of course I mean Sir Howard Cartwright.’ Her mouth set for a moment, like it does when she isn’t sure of what she thinks, but then she laughed and said, ‘Sir Howard Cartwright, I would love to dance.’ We danced all night; her card had of course been marked, but she refused everyone else and was so polite in her apologies, I think I fell in love with her right there and then.

  Clarry is like a fine wine, she improves with time. Clarry is wise, she doesn’t give away her emotions lightly. Nor does she judge people immediately. She takes her time, watching and waiting and weighing up not just whether you are worth investing time in her cup of tea, but also whether you are going to return her feelings. Luckily for me she deemed me worthy on both counts. And once you have felt the warmth of her love you couldn’t do anything else than love her back.

  So, enough sentiment. I’m not a man given to outpourings of emotion and I expect I am puce in the face right now. I just want to end by saying that today I am marrying the woman of my dreams. I cannot wait for our life together to start, to raise a family and tackle all the hurdles life puts in all our paths. I hope to see you all in 50 (check this, is it 60?) years’ time at our golden wedding party.

  13 … Revelation

  Dot had turned into her grandmother’s apple tree. At first the sensation was peculiarly pleasant: the gnarly bark encasing her limbs, the sense of permanence and strength, the birds in her branches. But then the wind started, pulling at her frame, wheedling its way underground in a way she couldn’t understand, prising her roots from the earth, laughing at her as she wobbled and toppled and fell to the ground. Faces appeared over her: her mother, her grandmother, Mavis, Clive, Mr Loveridge; and Dot realised they didn’t know that she was now the tree. Their mouths were moving, but she couldn’t make out what they were saying; Clive and Mavis turned away, laughing about something. Then Miss Benson, her history teacher, leant close over her. ‘History is all about roots,’ she said. ‘You can’t possibly understand anything unless you find out where people came from. Decisions are not made in a vacuum, you know.’ A siren sounded and Dot presumed someone had called the fire brigade.

  When Dot opened her eyes it was light, but she knew it was early. For a moment she still felt as stiff as the tree, was still straining for the fire engine, but then life exploded around her in its uncompromising intensity and she understood that her mobile was ringing on her bedside table. She reached for it and saw the name flashing up at her: freak. Gerry Loveridge had been sending her texts since she’d made it clear that she wouldn’t be making Mondays a regular visit and she didn’t want to hear whatever madness he was proposing now. But her clock told her that it was 6.12 a.m. and she felt worried by the strangeness of it all.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Dot. Did you know?’

  Dot rubbed her face, wondering if she was having one of those double dreams that you see in films. ‘What?’

  ‘Did you know about Mavis?’

  ‘What’s happened to her? Is she all right?’

  His tone calmed a bit. ‘You didn’t know, did you?’

  ‘What are you talking about, Gerry? What’s going on?’

  He half laughed. ‘She’s had a baby.’

  It was much too early for this. ‘She what?’

  ‘Last night – well, a few hours ago. She had a little girl.’

  ‘Oh my God.’

  ‘Precisely. S
he didn’t say anything to you?’

  ‘No.’ The realisation smacked at Dot like a harsh wind.

  ‘So you don’t know the name of the little shit who got her pregnant?’

  ‘No.’ It was obvious now, of course. Dot longed desperately to go backwards, to ask Mavis what was wrong properly. She remembered with shame the time she’d forced her to go to Cartertown to buy a dress for Clive and Debbie’s disastrous New Year’s Eve party. She remembered standing in Topshop with Mavis pretending that she didn’t care, refusing to try anything on. She remembered shouting at Mavis at the bus stop, asking her why she was being so moody, what her problem was. She remembered Mavis telling her that she wouldn’t understand, that Dot still lived in a world of easily solvable problems, like equations and essays. Mostly she remembered the outrage she’d felt at this because of her dad. Her dad who obscured everything else.

  ‘I’m going to kill him, whoever he is,’ Gerry was repeating on a loop in her ear.

  ‘Where are you?’ Dot asked.

  ‘Cartertown General.’

  Dot hung up and got dressed. The bus to Cartertown ran from seven and she could make it if she hurried. As soon as she was dressed she crept down the stairs, but as she reached her mother’s landing she stopped and listened at her door. The day was so surreal she had an urge to put a marker on it, to take something tangible with her on the odd journey she was about to make. She thought she was just going to look at her, take in a familiar view, but as she peered round the door she saw that her mother was wide awake, lying very still on her back, staring at the ceiling.

  ‘Dot?’ she said, half sitting up. ‘What is it?’

  Dot came into the room, the day dissolving into weirdness around her. How often did her mother lie awake at six-thirty in the morning? How often did she sleep? Dot sat on the edge of her mother’s bed. ‘Mavis’s dad just rang. She’s had a baby.’

  Her mother sat up completely at this. ‘A baby? Did you know she was pregnant?’