by Laura Kemp
‘It’s just so nice to be here with you without everyone else,’ she said, simply, tilting her head to the side, squinting an eye in the sun and holding up a rainbow mittened hand to shade herself.
Shell was the sweetest thing, he thought, not a player, bang on the money straightforward and she was honest. He liked her because she was everything he wasn’t.
Could he be better by proxy? He’d only know if he tried, he thought.
He drew her into his arms and, not wanting to let her go, used his teeth to pull her scarf down away from her mouth. Then he kissed her from deep inside, eating up the salt on her lips.
‘My mam, she would’ve liked you.’
He was shaken then, taken aback by the surprise of how freely he’d spoken these words. Where had it come from? he wondered, because he never talked about his mother to anyone but Orla. What did it mean? That he was subliminally comfortable with Shell on a level he hadn’t realized? Was this a sign that he might allow himself to be happy?
‘Tell me about her,’ Shell said into his chest of Puffa jacket.
He rubbed the base of her back instead, because where did you begin to tell the story of the person you worshipped yet knew was flawed? How did he explain that she loved him and Orla, Dad even, fiercely but had this way of withdrawing, shutting them all out. He didn’t want anyone’s pity or judgement – Mam couldn’t help her depression, whatever had set it off he didn’t know, but not everyone was so forgiving. He had grown up hearing other mams whispering she was ‘strange’ and his guts had twisted in anger and shame and love. Dad, the arsehole, hadn’t wanted to see it – that’s why his drinking worsened when she was going through it, not that that was an excuse.
She was also stupidly proud, moving him and Orla out of St Joseph’s because someone at the church had discreetly asked if she had any problems at home. It was about the time he’d had to pretend he’d lost his blazer because there was no money to buy a new one. She refused all offers of second-hand uniform because she didn’t want her kids ‘looking like paupers’.
‘Those interfering, nosey types sticking their oar in, where it’s not wanted,’ she’d said. If only she’d shown her face occasionally, to prove things weren’t too bad. But she never went to parents’ evenings or concerts, which was the one thing he liked about that school because he got to play guitar in a band. But she wouldn’t take a day off cleaning the offices. Looking back, Murphy realized she’d done that out of fear: if Dad drank the wages then she had to work all hours so she could feed her family. If only he’d told her just once that actually he’d loved moving to Cardiff High because he’d met a kindred spirit.
Yet at that time it taught Mikey that turning your back rather than asking for help was the way to deal with a problem. Still, he could forgive her that – she had no one else.
But then she could be the most amazing person, like on their birthdays, no matter how she was feeling, she’d always put up balloons the night before. You’d come down and she’d be there in her pink waffled dressing gown cutting up a cake, which she’d let you eat as a treat for breakfast. Never home-made, she couldn’t bake to save her life, it’d be one of those synthetic sponges with an inch of white icing all over but they loved it. And then as you shovelled it in in case she changed her mind, she’d tell you the story of your birth. ‘Mikey was a long skinny thing, so he was, furious at being born, but Orla, she was awful gorgeous and mewed like a kitten.’ And then she’d say how they’d made her so happy and the pain had been worth every second.
Six years she’d been gone – if only she could see him now. He’d have got her help, if she was still alive. Why hadn’t God taken Dad first? he wanted to ask the sky: no one would’ve missed him, but no, cancer stole his mum, robbed her of the chance to see how well her kids had turned out in spite of everything.
It was too soon to let this out. But still, he felt himself thawing from Shell’s love: because, he knew, she loved him, she just hadn’t said it yet. It was on the horizon and he wished he had those words building up inside of him. Maybe he just had to try harder.
‘ARTHUR! Do not shake yourself there,’ a voice shouted urgently from behind his left shoulder. ‘Oh God, he’s going to cover you, quick, mooove!’
But it was too late, as Murphy turned round to see what was going on, he got a face full of sand and saltwater which stung his eyes and splattered his new Howies organic jeans.
‘Oh for fuck’s sake,’ he said, jumping back, temporarily blinded. ‘Can’t you control your dog?’
Then his eyes started watering and in the blur he saw pink on blonde. His heart shuddered, the hairs on his arms jumped up, his empty stomach cramped.
Just stop it, he told himself, just stop looking for her. He didn’t want to see Vicky, his brain was playing tricks on him. It had been the same ever since he’d checked her out on Facebook: he’d had to, just quickly, see her face. And ever since, in the street, on the periphery of his vision, when he closed his eyes, hues of pink kept appearing whether they were real or not. He had resolved this, so why was she still lingering?
It couldn’t be her, he thought, blinking at speed, needing to prove it was a fantasy. All this is, he thought, was the last dying embers of his old life. He rubbed his eyes and felt them clearing.
‘I’m so sorry. Arthur! Come here, you utter fool of a…’
Then everything went slo-mo as he saw Vicky in front of him, open-mouthed, confused, agog.
His heartbeat dropped to a heavy bassline as his lungs rose, expanding his ribcage millimetre by millimetre. The blood moved around him like a lazy river, bubbling in his ears as his blinking eyes caught up. His brain, lagging behind, was writing the programming language of the situation: is it really Vicky? It looks like Vicky, a slighter version of her, but all the hallmarks are there: the chickenpox scar from when she was three is above her right eyebrow, the same shade of early deep blue dawn is in her eyes and her lips are slicked with something shiny just as they were when she had a different fruit balm every week. Conclusion: it is Vicky.
The shake of his breath rattled up his throat and rushed out of his mouth. How many times had he wished he’d been in The Matrix, but why did it have to be now, like this?
‘Fuck,’ he said as her eyes skipped around his face, no doubt confirming that he too really was who she thought he was.
‘Mikey?’ she said, shaking her head and the hair which tumbled around her face, bleached and pink, like Orla’s punked-up Girl’s World styling head from their childhood. Her voice was parched, strained as if she hadn’t spoken yet today. Highly unlikely, he caught himself thinking, because she never used to shut up. She held up her hands in shock then self-consciously put them down. His reflexes leapt into action as he saw her trying to work out if physical contact was expected.
He stepped back and put out an arm to protect Shell, who he now remembered was beside him. She was looking intrigued at his reaction, he just knew it. He was unravelling and he had to pretend he wasn’t. He stroked his palm down his face, apprehensive, and began.
‘Shell, this is Vicky, from school. Vicky, this is Shell, my…’
He hated himself because he faltered then. Did he have it in him to label her as his? He had to or he’d fall apart.
‘…girlfriend.’
Shell looked relieved and he wanted to punch himself for having that power: for making her happy when he wasn’t sure he could handle that responsibility now or ever. Waving a small hello, Vicky nodded back with a ‘hi, there’. Not a flash of anything insincere about it. Or, and he reprimanded himself as he thought it, a flicker of resentment at Shell being here by his side.
So awkward at his past meeting his present, and possibly his future, if the sand could’ve parted to reveal jaws, then he’d have taken his chances and somersaulted in. Instead he had to contend with it – plus an anger that Vicky had walked in on him just when he had blocked her out again.
‘What are you doing here?’ she said, wearing her disbelief like a
flaming Blue Peter badge.
At least she had the decency to blush now that the initial astonishment was over: no doubt she was trying to work out what you said to someone if you’d disappeared, just like that, from someone’s life. Tasting it as if it had just happened, he remembered her silence: when, finally, he’d emailed to say he wanted to come and visit her when she was away. That possibly there was stuff he needed to say to her. He felt her neglect again. Then the warning which had come from Kat that awful night they met when she’d got back from travelling: ‘She’s changed.’ That’s why he’d never accepted her Facebook request which appeared one day out of the blue in 2009, around Christmas. And why he’d never accepted her request to catch up this time round either.
‘Just showing Shell the sights,’ he said, tartly, expecting her to get the message to cut this short and go. But of course they were British and they would have to play this out and only then could they leave. God, he hated this! Why couldn’t he just announce there was no way back and walk away?
‘Right,’ she said, guardedly, ‘I’m walking the dog… Obviously.’
Then her cringe took him all the way back to the classroom, the discos, the parties, the pubs where she’d known straight away when she’d said something stupid.
‘It’s my mum and dad’s. Not mine.’
Murphy raised his eyebrows then looked down at his feet where his toes were curling. Please, just go, he thought. He saw her DMs shuffling – still in DMs, like a teenager. He met her stare then, challenging her to go. She chewed on a nail – Christ, she always used to do that when she was upset – and took in a deep breath.
Murphy pulled himself back up, making his posture tall to show this was how it was.
She put the dog back on the lead and turned to leave. But then she stopped and lifted her eyes to his: they were stormy with hurt. And he saw now she had a trace of a blotch on her neck, which meant she'd been crying recently. He felt the weakness of knowing her inside out.
‘Did you, um, get my message, the other day?’ she said, as if she was giving it one last chance. ‘I wondered because I’m back here for a bit and I thought it’d be nice to catch up. If you’re around, at all?’
As much as he wanted to hiss that yes he had and couldn’t she read between the lines, he was wavering from her gabbling.
‘It’s just, the other day for the first time since… in years, I saw Kat.’ His innards writhed at the sound of Kat’s name. What did Vicky know? Had Kat said anything? She couldn’t have, otherwise her reception would’ve been colder than a polar bear’s arse.
‘She’s Kate now. Like I’m Vee… and you’re Murphy.’ She shook her head at her awkwardness and pushed on. ‘Anyway, it was like old times.’ She tried to smile. A limp wet fish of a smile. ‘But better. Like, we’re older now.’
He wanted to give her a sarky round of applause for having the gall to attempt a sickeningly saccharine Disney-style moral of the story: that people make mistakes, that forgiveness is possible, that we all grow up.
But then a sob escaped from her and she turned away and blinked into the wind to compose herself. Fuck it, he thought, he was softening seeing her in black and white rather than her old technicolour. He dipped his head and shut his eyes in a pathetic last line of defence.
She must’ve seen then it was worth one final attempt.
‘…it was all so long ago and we decided to just put everything behind us. So, if you change your mind…’
Then without finishing the thought or waiting for a reply, she walked away towards the prom, leaving him humbled and sorry and with something in his eye as he watched her retreat. For someone who had a degree in making a pig’s ear out of something, she’d mastered dignity.
‘Blast from the past?’ Shell said, tugging his arm, pulling him back to her. ‘Don’t worry, we all have them.’
‘No, it wasn’t like that,’ he said, tightly. ‘She’s not an ex.’
Shell shifted her head backwards – she didn’t understand what he meant.
He gulped as he gave in to what he wanted to say.
‘My best mate,’ he said, realizing that once he’d said that, without putting it into the past tense, he would absolutely one hundred per cent see her again.
*
Mikey’s parents’ house, Llanedeyrn, Cardiff, Christmas 2007
Stuffed. Well and truly.
But Mikey still rifles through the Quality Street for a green triangle, locates one, unwraps it and lets the chocolate melt in his mouth. He savours it, just like he savours Christmas. It’s the one time of year Mam and Dad call a truce. Weird how everyone else gets wrecked this time of year but Dad reigns it in to redeem himself. ‘Christmas is for amateurs,’ he says, with the contorted pride of a professional boozer. Mikey looks at him on the other sofa, his bald patch shining red, green and blue, reflecting the fairy lights on the fake tree. His craggy head lolls beneath his gold tilted paper hat, supported by the roll of chin on his chest. To anyone else he’d look like he was sleeping off a skinful. But he’s only had a couple of cans, like he knows this is Mam’s special day. As if she’s saying sorry for the way she hibernates and doesn’t eat even when Mikey’s made her favourite, pie and mash.
He watches her still in her Christmas pinny, entranced by Strictly, cuddled up with her mini-me Orla, who’s in the middle. Mam’s going grey, but Orla’s curls of bluey-black hair are identical to the photos of Mam when she was her age. Their eyes are on the amber side of brown, like a lion, which is pretty apt seeing their hearts are as big. He got Dad’s looks, big rugged features – a dream for those artists who do crap caricatures by Spanish beaches – but that’s as far as the analysis goes because he doesn’t want to find anything else in common with him. Even though he’s been like a proper Dad today with rubbish jokes and chit-chat. That must’ve been what Mam fell for…
So he listens to Mam and Orla’s running commentary on the outfits and dances as if they’re bloody pros. It’s all feathers, feet positions and technique.
They’ve already seen Doctor Who – he was happy with that seeing as Kylie was in it – and EastEnders, a bit of a cracker when Bradley Branning found out his wife was banging his old man. He’s sat through all of that because it’s rare to have everyone in the same room at the same time. Mam has earned this, he thinks, she always throws everything into Christmas, saves all her money from her £5-an-hour jobs to make sure no one goes short. And he hasn’t. He can’t move he’s so full.
He checks his watch: there’s only an hour and a bit to go. Mikey has bagsied the late film, The Motorcycle Diaries, because he loves Che Guevara. And he wants to see what South America is like, see the landscape where Vicky has been. She’s in Australia now and still on at him in her emails to visit. For one thing, he couldn’t handle people talking in fake Aussie accents and ending their sentences with a higher inflection.
And another, well, he’d be mad to go.
Life is on the up here: he’s applied for a job at the Apple shop in Regent Street in London. It’s a Specialist position, which is a fancy word for salesman, but imagine going to work every day there – it’s a flagship store, which was Europe’s first and the world’s largest branch when it opened in 2004. He’s been up there for a recce – he stood outside for ages just taking it in. It’s the grandest building, a listed one built in 1898, all arches and windows. Inside, he couldn’t believe how airy it was compared to the rabbit hutch of his shop. The Genius Bar alone is fourteen metres long! There’s a theatre there, a kids’ area and workshops. It’s like a religion, but a cool one.
That’s where he wants to end up because the iPhone is incredible. One million were sold within seventy-four days of it going on sale in June. And it wasn’t even launched in the UK until November. Mikey reaches for his to give it some love. His manager still calls them carphones, the prick. God, it’s beautiful, he thinks, smoothing its rounded edges. He was one of those saddoes who queued up at midnight to get his hands on one when it first came out. Tot
ally worth that. It can’t connect to the Internet without wifi – yet – and it’s a bit slow but it’s incredible enough to have an entire computer in your hand. Steve Jobs somehow managed to shrink Apple’s desktop system and put it in people’s palms. It’s the design too: like, there’s no buttons. It’s just a screen which you can pinch and zoom and double-tap. It’s so simple, intuitive. Being able to touch the screen directly: it makes it feel part of you. But the thing that excites him the most is that, last month, Apple took the decision to allow anyone, not just their employees, to develop software for it. Some clever bastards had managed to jailbreak it within days of the iPhone’s release so people could install software not approved by Apple. It means anyone, even him, could come up with a game or business or entertainment application and they can be sold from an online shop.
Mikey feels an electricity inside him, as if he’s plugged in, recharging.
But hold tight, he thinks, because there’s other stuff happening. Like if he leaves here, he’ll never know how Mam really is because she’d tell him nothing. She gets these tummy aches which make her double up, he’s seen it, but she won’t go to the doctor. Dad is oblivious. And Orla’s just started uni in London so he can’t worry her. She is loved up with a bloke she met on the first night at a freshers’ party: she’s been texting him non-stop and he’s not playing it cool either. It’s amazing to see how she can love without fear.
The only person he can behave like that with is Vicky. Not that it’s ‘love’ love, just the safety of knowing she won’t blow him out or go hot and cold. God, he misses her. He thought he’d be okay, having coped with her going off to university. But then she was on the end of a phone or would come back to see him. Now he depends on her emails for contact. He has found a new openness through the written word: like he can say things he couldn’t say so boldly to her face.