The Yips

by Barker, Nicola

  Stan glances up, startled. The golfer tosses down the Order of Service and picks up Stan’s copy of Bruce Lee’s Artist of Life. ‘This thing any good?’ he asks, idly flipping through it.

  ‘Depends on your definition of “good”,’ Stan answers, somewhat inscrutably.

  Ransom thinks for a few seconds. ‘Gisele Bundchen’s baps,’ he eventually volunteers.

  Stan carefully considers this suggestion. ‘I’m not sure if that’s an appropriate frame of reference,’ he eventually concludes.

  Ransom places down the book again. ‘I actually had a brief correspondence with Linda Lee Cadwell …’

  ‘Lee’s wife?’

  Stan’s impressed. ‘What about?’

  ‘I dunno. Bruce. Fame. Mysticism. Sport. Competition. Life …’

  Ransom commences picking, distractedly, at an ingrown hair on his forearm.

  ‘So once we’ve dried all this stuff off,’ he eventually mutters, abandoning the ingrown hair, gazing down at his naked torso, tensing his chest muscles and watching his generous, brown nipples jerk skyward, ‘then what?’

  Stan frowns, focusing on the nipples himself (his dark brows automatically arching, in sync). ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘Well d’you reckon it might be possible to just stick it all back into the book and … uh …’ Ransom shrugs.

  ‘What?’ Stan looks scandalized. ‘Bang it back on to the shelf again like nothing’s happened?’

  Ransom shifts in his seat, quickly diverting his attention from Stan’s accusing gaze to a small window cut into the tiling above the stainless-steel sink. Beyond this window stands a large vehicle covered in tarpaulin.

  ‘What is that out there?’ he demands, rising slightly. ‘A truck of some kind? A jeep?’

  ‘But wouldn’t that just be wrong?’ Stan interrupts, refusing to be diverted.

  Ransom flinches at the word ‘wrong’. He abhors moral imperatives. The word ‘wrong’ hangs in the air between them, buzzing, self-righteously, like an angry black hornet.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Ransom finally concedes, smiling brightly as he sits back down again, ‘of course it would be wrong. Of course it would be. I was just thinking out loud – just trying the idea on for size – brainstorming, if you like … Although …’ He pauses, thoughtfully. ‘Although in my experience, which is – as I’m sure you can imagine – pretty extensive …’ (He pauses again, portentously.) ‘Golf is principally a game of the mind, a game of strategy, after all … I’ve generally found that actually telling people about something like this – a serious problem or a terrible catastrophe – confronting them with it, unhelpfully, at an inappropriate moment, can often end up generating more hurt and distress than simply letting the whole thing unfold in a more gradual, a more natural, a more … uh … how to put this? A more organic way.’

  ‘But if we just stick the book back on to the shelf again and say nothing,’ Stan interrupts, scowling, ‘what happens when they do eventually find out? Won’t I just cop all the flack for something that wasn’t even my fault?’

  ‘You?’ Ransom appears stunned by this humble teenager’s fundamental grasp of basic, deductive logic. ‘But why on earth would they blame you? That’s totally illogical! Like you say, it wasn’t your fault …’ He pauses, thoughtfully. ‘Although if you hadn’t come charging into the room, at the worst possible moment, like a bull in a bloody china shop …’

  As Ransom speaks he darts a malevolent look towards his phone (where it currently sits, moistly – but still disturbingly functional – on the countertop).

  ‘Well who else are they going to blame?’ Stan snorts.

  ‘They might not blame anyone!’ Ransom declaims, indignant. ‘They might not even notice anything’s wrong. They might just put the staining down to a little natural wear and tear, or think that there’s a touch of damp behind the bookshelf, or …’ He pauses. ‘Or an infestation of silverfish. It’s a common enough problem, uh …’

  He peers at Stan, enquiringly. ‘What was your name again?’

  ‘Stanislav,’ Stan enlightens him.

  ‘Polish?’

  Stan nods. ‘On my dad’s side.’

  ‘Really? Gene’s a Pole?’ Ransom’s surprised.

  ‘Not Gene. I mean my real dad. Gene’s my stepdad.’

  ‘Oh. Okay.’ Ransom accepts this information, impassively. ‘Well, for all we know, Stanislav,’ (he promptly returns to the issue at hand), ‘it’s entirely possible that nobody will get around to picking up this book and looking inside it for weeks – months – years, even. In fact it’s not beyond reason that we might actually be the last two people on the planet ever to handle this thing.’

  He holds up the palmistry book with a suitably portentous expression.

  ‘I seriously doubt that,’ Stan quickly (and firmly) debunks his theory. ‘It’s a precious, family heirloom, not just some crummy, old book that nobody cares about.’

  ‘But that’s the very nature of an heirloom, don’t you see?’ Ransom exclaims, frustrated. ‘They’re not especially important – not in themselves. They’re just old things from the past that “represent” stuff …’ – he rolls his eyes, boredly – ‘stuff about, urgh … I dunno … ideas and memories and feelings and shit, but they don’t actually mean anything. They’re not actually worth anything …’

  ‘Well you were interested enough to take a look at it,’ Stan mutters.

  ‘This house could suddenly go up in flames!’ Ransom leaps to his feet, dramatically. ‘Tonight! Next weekend! An electrical fault! It could be razed to the ground! Then all this worrying and heart-searching will’ve been a complete waste of bloody energy.’

  Stan indicates, mutely, to a small, flashing smoke alarm which is situated on the ceiling directly above their heads.

  ‘A flood, then,’ Ransom improvises, irritated. ‘A flash-flood – and you barely have time to evacuate the place …’

  ‘In Luton?!’ Stan snorts.

  ‘Yeah. Why not?’

  ‘No big rivers.’

  ‘None at all?’

  ‘The Lee, but that hardly counts.’

  ‘No canals? No lakes?’

  Stan gives this some thought. ‘I suppose there’s always the lake over in Wardown Park, but that’s –’

  ‘A burst water main! Hah! ’ Ransom slaps the worktop, victorious. ‘I rest my case!’

  ‘These are Mallory’s things, anyway,’ Stan persists (instinctively shielding the vulnerable clover from Ransom’s violent show of exuberance). ‘They’re her dead mum’s things. They belonged to her dead mother,’ he reiterates (just in case Ransom was in any, remaining doubt about the objects’ sacred provenance). ‘Mallory’s the one you’ve got to be seriously worried about here.’

  ‘Mallory’s just a kid!’ Ransom swiftly pooh-poohs him. ‘She probably won’t even notice …’

  ‘Oh really?!’ Stan guffaws. ‘You obviously don’t know Mallory very well. Mallory’s officially the world’s most uptight kid. She’s a neat-freak – a lunatic. She pretty much has a heart attack if she steps in a puddle on her way to school. Top of her Christmas list last year was a shoe store and a lint roller.’

  ‘Well I bet Mallory has loads of knick-knacks knocking about the place from when her mum was still alive,’ Ransom contends.

  ‘There was her mum’s old teddy bear …’ Stan willingly concedes.

  ‘A teddy bear!’ Ransom throws up his hands. ‘Perfect! What better memento of a loved one than a teddy bear?’

  ‘… but it was destroyed by moths,’ Stan finishes off.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And there was her mum’s gold, heart-shaped locket with a tuft of her dad’s hair hidden inside …’

  ‘Bingo!’ Ransom snaps his fingers. ‘Top that! Precious, wearable and sentimental.’

  ‘… but it was stolen from her locker at the swimming pool last year.’

  A lengthy silence follows in which Ransom stares, inscrutably, into the middle distance (pulling rhythmically – and
not a little repulsively – at the hair under his armpit), until, ‘So what the heck is that thing?’ he finally demands, pointing. ‘A jeep, a van, a truck …?’

  ‘Cheiro,’ Gene says, ‘was this well-known –’

  ‘Palm-reader,’ she interrupts, ‘and a clairvoyant. Yeah. I know all about him.’

  Valentine holds out her hand. ‘Can I take a proper look?’

  Gene removes the ring from his little finger and passes it over. They are standing in the hallway together.

  ‘Although the story’s probably just apocryphal.’ He shrugs, noticing how her make-up is perfect now (the bright, red lipstick no longer smudged at one corner but adhering – neatly and faithfully – to the smooth line of her lips).

  ‘Apocry-what?’ She grins up at him.

  ‘Apocryphal. Not genuine. My mother was a professional palmist. I suppose it was a rather convenient piece of lineage to have.’

  Valentine inspects the ring closely.

  ‘It’s incredibly pretty,’ she murmurs. ‘Is that a ruby?’

  As she pores over the ring, Gene’s eyes are drawn to the short, delicate fronds of auburn hair at the nape of her neck which protrude – in irresistible wisps – from below her scarf.

  ‘Is that a ruby?’ she repeats, glancing up.

  ‘A ruby?’ Gene starts. ‘No. No, it’s actually a garnet. I believe it’s Persian. He apparently wore it on the little finger of his right hand to ward off evil spirits.’

  He smiles, drolly.

  ‘And the cigarette case? Do you have that, too?’ Valentine wonders (ignoring the drollery).

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘The cigarette case. Wasn’t it the silver cigarette case that saved his life when he was stabbed by a disgruntled client in his New York apartment?’

  Gene looks bewildered.

  ‘There’s no official biography’ – Valentine shrugs – ‘but you can find out all about him on the internet. His books still sell in bucket-loads – they’re considered classics in the field. From what I can recollect, I’m pretty sure he was raised in Ireland, although he finished up in California, working as a screenwriter …’

  ‘I get the general impression,’ Gene interjects (somewhat dryly), ‘that his personal history probably always owed a certain debt to the screenwriter’s art.’

  ‘So there’s a powerful emotional connection with your mother, at the very least,’ Valentine ruminates.

  Gene frowns, not following her logic.

  ‘They both enjoyed spinning the odd yarn.’ She grins.

  He considers this for a second and then smiles himself.

  ‘Although if your mother’s story is to be considered credible,’ she reasons, ‘if the connection is biological, then you’d actually be his great-great-nephew or something …’ She raises a mildly satirical brow. ‘I never got the impression that Cheiro was “the marrying kind”.’

  ‘There was a sister,’ Gene muses, ‘a Mary Louise Warner, but I suspect our connection might’ve been by marriage alone.’

  Valentine continues to inspect the ring.

  ‘Anyhow …’ Gene draws a deep breath, struggling to re-focus. ‘I just didn’t feel it would be right to let the incident pass without at least drawing your attention to it in some way.’ He glances down the corridor and indicates (somewhat limply) towards the child.

  Valentine slips the ring on to her index finger, straightens out her arm and holds it at a distance (to admire it, in situ). ‘I’m really interested in palms,’ she murmurs, turning her hand over and inspecting her own, ‘I’m obsessed by the skin, in general, same as my dad was. Just how strong it is – how tough and soft and durable. The skin’s actually the largest organ of the body. Did you know that?’

  Gene doesn’t respond. He’s still peering over at Nessa who is currently having a loud, imaginary conversation on the heavy, black, Bakelite phone.

  ‘Just forget about the other thing.’ Valentine smiles (glancing over towards the child herself). ‘Sasha’s so uptight about that kind of stuff. Nessa’s still a baby. She’s a free spirit. She hates to feel confined – hemmed in – by clothes, walls, rules … And she’s the world’s worst exhibitionist. I’ve got no idea where …’

  Valentine pauses for a second, mid-sentence, then frowns. ‘I mean I’m sure she’ll grow out of it. It’s just this silly phase she’s going through.’

  ‘She’s certainly quite a character,’ Gene murmurs as Nessa lifts up the back of her dress, pulls the hem over her forehead and commences wearing it as a kind of half-veil, beaming all the while.

  ‘She’s completely brazen!’ Valentine chuckles. ‘Brimming with confidence! Life has a nasty habit of knocking the stuffing out of people …’ She gazes up at him, appealingly.

  ‘I take your point,’ Gene concedes, ‘although I do think that when girls reach a certain age …’ He pauses, cautiously. ‘And I have a daughter of my own, so I’m speaking from painful experience here … These things can occasionally start to develop – if you’re not extremely careful – into something rather more … uh … something rather more …’

  ‘But she’s still just a baby!’ Valentine repeats.

  ‘Yes. She is. Absolutely …’ Gene clears his throat. ‘It’s simply that the other children in the group – the boys, in particular …’

  Gene focuses, intently, on the aspidistra. He can’t quite believe he’s having this conversation.

  ‘The boys?’ Valentine’s brows rise.

  ‘Yeah. Yeah. The older boys,’ Gene murmurs. ‘It’s nothing explicit, nothing … just a … a particular kind of … well … a certain kind of … of atmosphere …’

  ‘An atmosphere?’ Valentine looks shocked. ‘An atmosphere?’ she repeats, lifting a tentative hand to the back of her head.

  ‘Yeah …’ Gene follows the progress of the hand from the corner of his eye (it’s an attractive hand – soft and graceful, with lean, tapering fingers. An artistic hand, he suddenly thinks, switching, automatically, into palm-reading mode, a conic hand …). ‘Yeah …’ he repeats, blinking. ‘I mean they’re certainly not doing anything … anything inappropriate, they’re just naturally … uh … inquisitive. Just registering an … an idle interest, so to speak. There’s nothing … nothing specifically wrong about it – not exactly … yet it still feels slightly … well …’ – he winces – ‘slightly … what’s the word? I don’t know … slightly, uh, well, unsavoury …’

  ‘Unsavoury?’ Valentine snorts, incredulous. ‘Bloody hell! They’re only kids, for heaven’s sake!’

  ‘Absolutely!’ Gene insists. ‘Completely!’ he reaffirms. ‘I mean it would be ridiculous – stupid, ludicrous – to blow this thing all out of –’

  ‘Wouldn’t it, though?’ Valentine interrupts, tartly.

  Gene winces, stung.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she immediately apologizes.

  ‘No.’ Gene shakes his head. ‘It’s fine. I probably deserved that. I’ve overstepped the mark.’

  A strange pulse passes between them.

  ‘It just seems like a sad reflection of the modern world,’ Valentine finally volunteers, ‘if an innocent, little girl, a child, can’t just –’

  ‘If you’ll forgive me for saying so,’ Gene promptly interrupts her (his confidence burgeoning, exponentially, as the discussion moves from the personal to the generic), ‘this isn’t really about the relative goodness or badness of the world. It’s not a complex social or philosophical issue, it’s purely a pragmatic one – a practical one. It’s essentially about accepting our responsibility as adults. Children need protecting – as much from themselves as from other people – protecting from their own innocence, even …’

  As Gene speaks, a commotion becomes audible in the street outside. A vehicle pulls up at the kerb, the engine cuts out, car doors slam, the gate creaks, footsteps can be heard tramping up the garden path (and voices, engaged in lively conversation).

  Valentine gives no indication of having noticed, though. She continues to stare
up at him, totally engrossed in what he’s saying, her lips moving as his lips move, her hands knitted together so tightly that the knuckles are whitening. On noticing her hands – the stress in them – Gene suddenly loses the strand of what he’s saying. He glances over towards the door. ‘I should probably … uh …’ he mutters, gesticulating.

  Valentine says nothing for a few seconds and then, ‘Yes,’ she murmurs, her voice unexpectedly flat and colourless. Gene turns and takes a small step forward.

  ‘Wait …!’

  Valentine reaches out her arm and touches his shoulder. He spins around, as if stung. She pulls his ring off her finger and offers it to him. He takes it from her. He starts to say something – something off the cuff, something low and intense and curiously heartfelt – then the door flies open and his words are swiftly obliterated in the ensuing commotion.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be at school or something?’

  They are standing in the garden together inspecting a large, tarpaulin-covered vehicle. Ransom has thrown on his jeans again (in haste – one of the pockets is hanging out) along with an antique, military cap and matching jacket (he’s still resolutely bare-chested underneath it). The uniform he unearthed (mere moments earlier) in the hallway cupboard as Stan hastily disposed of the mop and bucket.

  The cap’s a perfect fit, but the jacket’s strong, sepia-coloured fabric forms two taut ridges between his shoulder blades and creaks a fusty protest from beneath his armpits.

  ‘I’ve got the day off, actually,’ Stanislav swanks.

  ‘Really?’ Ransom starts grappling, ham-fistedly, with the tarpaulin. ‘How’d you manage to wrangle that, then?’

  ‘School Exchange Programme.’ The teenager tries (and fails) to look nonchalant. ‘I’m flying to Krakow this afternoon. For a month.’

  ‘Ah, Krakow.’ Ransom smiles, dreamily. ‘There’s a fabulous Ronald Fream course in Krakow. The Krakow Valley Golf and Country Club. Ever played there?’