‘Of course,’ Valentine repeats. Still, the dead eyes.
Sheila tests her bad leg – tries to rest her weight on it. It takes her weight easily but then burns so much as the fabric of her trouser falls down across the shin again that a spurt of pure bile jets into her mouth. She peers over at Nessa, who is quietly watching everything as it unfolds before her, mouth agape, wearing a look of childlike wonder.
‘Very nice to meet you, Nessa,’ she mutters, ruffling the white curls on the child’s head. She takes two steps towards the door, then retches, then a further few steps and retches again, her eyes focused, with a maniacal energy, on those wise, green leaves of the aspidistra.
Chapter 9
‘Did you know that the word – the actual word – for “individual” didn’t even exist in Japan until 1884?’ Jen asks, casually fishing the seam of her white catsuit out of the crack in her bottom as she speaks. ‘It first came into regular use following an early translation of Rousseau’s Social Contract.’
Brief pause.
‘Actually, yes – I think I may have stumbled across that particular idea before …’ Terence Nimrod nods.
‘It’s not “an idea”,’ Jen corrects him, sternly, ‘it’s “a fact”.’
They are standing on the green by the fourteenth hole (Ransom is hiding here, determined to avoid the start of the Children’s Tournament at the first), crowded – like a flock of human vultures – around a large packet of Gummy Bears which Israel has recently produced from his briefcase.
‘Nimrod spent part of his misspent youth training in Japan,’ Toby helpfully interjects, politely pressing flat a nearby divot (recently generated by Jen’s unsuitable footwear) with the trusty heel of his Hush-Puppy.
‘Really?’ Jen’s naturally intrigued. ‘I hear the drop-out rate among junior Rikishi is really high. They treat those fat kids like little slaves. How long did you stay at the Heya for, altogether? Time to grow a top-knot?’
Another brief pause follows, punctuated by the laborious champing of several jaws.
‘Do they really force-feed the kids at Sumo Stables?’ Jen persists. ‘Or is that just another of those sick Western myths?’
Ransom – ear-wigging in on their conversation from a few feet away (where he’s just inadvertently hooked a practice shot with a ‘lucky ball’) – almost chokes on a mouthful of Vitamin Water.
‘The force-feeding I didn’t have a problem with’ – Nimrod smiles, blithely – ‘it was the constant chafing from my mawashi which really got my goat.’
Another brief silence.
‘Nimrod at Sumo School?!’ Ransom simply can’t contain himself a moment longer. ‘Just because he’s the size of a friggin’ whale?! Seriously?! Is this a wind-up or what?!’
‘I generally find that great satire, like fresh Battenberg,’ Jen reasons, airily (to no one in particular), ‘always benefits from being broken down into its constituent parts.’
‘Marzipan, thin layer of jam, two types of sponge …’ Nimrod muses, fondly.
‘Battenberg?’ Israel’s confused. ‘Cake or man?’
‘Both, I imagine,’ Nimrod surmises. ‘Toby?’
‘A cake, a man and a location,’ Toby promptly confirms. ‘It was created in honour of the nuptials of Queen Victoria’s granddaughter to Prince Louis of Battenberg in the mid-1880s. Prince Louis had four brothers, which is what the four sponge squares dressed in marzipan were intended to represent.’
Israel inspects Toby with a renewed level of respect. Ransom scowls.
‘The Japanese have this very powerful conception of shame’ – Jen quickly returns to her former subject – ‘but guilt’s not nearly such a big deal there. Shame is social, see? Guilt is individual. Ergo, guilt is an intrinsically selfish emotion, ergo, I shouldn’t feel guilty for eating too many Gummy Bears, at least not in the abstract – but it would be shameful if I deprived the charming Mr Whittaker here of his rightful portion.’
‘Intriguing hypothesis.’ Nimrod takes another bear.
Ransom rolls his eyes, exaggeratedly.
‘It’s the same in many African cultures,’ Israel volunteers, ‘if you commit a crime and it isn’t discovered then you don’t feel guilt. It’s all good. Only the discovery of a crime makes it a problem.’
‘That’s just weird.’ Toby shakes his head.
‘Heard it on the World Service.’ Israel shrugs as Toby reaches for yet another bear, then mutters, ‘I’m frazzled – didn’t get much sleep last night,’ by way of an explanation.
‘Guilt is a very Catholic emotion.’ Nimrod nods, gnomically. ‘Repentance, guilt, self-loathing … all very Catholic emotions.’
Gene arrives – sans ‘lucky ball’ – to hear the tail-end of this conversation.
‘No sign of it in the bushes,’ he puffs, ‘how lucky was it?’
‘Irreplaceable.’
‘Oh.’
Israel offers him a Gummy Bear. Gene takes one and pops it into his mouth, unthinkingly.
‘Like, “the-ball-Tony-Jacklin-won-the-US-Open-with” lucky?’ Nimrod wonders, taking out his notebook.
‘It’s an autographed Arnold Palmer ball.’ Ransom scowls. ‘The King gave it to me himself.’
‘Why did you have it among your practice balls?’ Gene looks irritated. ‘I had no idea when I handed it to you that it was anything special.’
‘It’s a lucky ball,’ Ransom snaps. ‘Where the fuck else am I gonna keep a lucky ball other than with my practice balls? How the fuck is the luck meant to rub off on the other balls if it’s locked away in a glass-fronted friggin’ cabinet?’
‘Did you know that it can take a golf ball anywhere up to a thousand years to decompose naturally?’ Jen asks, followed, after a short pause, by, ‘The King?! For real?!’
‘Arnold Palmer is the greatest golfer in history.’ Ransom shrugs. ‘Arnold Palmer is the greatest golfer of all time. Ever.’
‘If I’d only known it was there …’ Gene grumbles.
Israel passes Toby the Gummy Bear packet, and turns to Gene. ‘Why don’t I come and help you look?’ he suggests.
‘That’s very kind of you.’ Gene smiles down at the kid. ‘How about if I scour this section again’ – he points – ‘and you take the other side?’
Israel folds up his portable stool, slides it into his briefcase and then hands it to Jen for safekeeping.
‘If a black man had been playing professional golf since the genesis of the game then a black man would be the greatest golfer of all time,’ he opines. ‘Fact is, they were only ever allowed to lug old whitey’s clubs around.’
Ransom squints at him, baffled, eyes slit against the sun, then turns and stares at Jen, with a look best described as ‘ominous’.
‘I’ve heard that point made before.’ Nimrod nods.
‘And if Woods is any indicator …’ Toby concedes, popping another Gummy Bear into his mouth.
Israel and Gene head off into the scrub again.
‘Where the hell did that photographer get to?’ Jen mutters, unnerved.
Nimrod is gazing after Gene, intrigued. ‘You’d never know there was anything different about him,’ he murmurs. ‘I mean aside from the slight limp and the military get-up, he’s just your average Joe; a normal, friendly bloke. Straightforward. Good-looking. Unpretentious …’
‘Really modest.’ Toby nods. ‘Doesn’t act like he thinks he’s anything special.’
‘It always amazes me how some people have this inbuilt capacity to just shake off their pasts,’ Nimrod muses. ‘No scar tissue. No baggage. They just step free of it all, easy as.’
‘He’s a one-off,’ Jen sighs. ‘Strong, but with this really soft, really sensitive side.’
‘It’s like, how the hell do you get your head around it?’ Nimrod wonders. ‘Being so unlucky and then so lucky? How d’you find a balance? Where d’you end up, psychologically? It’s fascinating.’
‘I’ve had the best of luck and the worst of luck during my career,’ Ransom sighs. ‘I�
�ve been up, floating in the clouds, then down, grubbing around in the dirt –’
‘The gutter,’ Jen helpfully interjects.
‘And I’ve often found the good times way harder to handle than the bad,’ he continues, ‘which is pretty fascinating, psychologically speaking.’
‘But you say his wife’s a minister?’ Nimrod’s straight back to Gene again. ‘C of E?’
‘He only has one nut,’ Ransom volunteers, ‘they inserted a little, silicon bag. Apparently it feels totally normal to the touch.’
Short silence.
‘Although there’s some reduced sensitivity.’
‘Well thanks so much for sharing.’ Jen acid-smiles.
‘And while we’re on the subject …’ (Ransom promptly changes the subject), ‘don’t you just friggin’ hate it when people think they can re-write history like that?’ (He’s plainly still smarting from Israel’s earlier comment.) ‘I mean how the fuck are you expected to engage with that kind of backward logic?’
‘You can’t respond to it.’ Jen shrugs. ‘It’s unanswerable.’
Ransom nods, mollified.
‘Let’s face it,’ Jen continues, ‘black people are always gonna be way better at sport than we are, and they’re always gonna be way better at music and they’re always gonna be way better at religion. They’re better dancers, better lovers … Case closed. End of.’
‘That’s so fuckin’ racist!’ Ransom howls, outraged.
‘DWI.’ Jen chuckles.
‘Turn it around,’ Nimrod suggests, sagely, ‘and see how it sounds.’
‘Eh?’ Jen’s slow on the uptake.
‘Well if I said, “White people are better at … uh …”’ – he struggles to find suitable examples – ‘okay, if I say, “They’re better at science and they’re better at poetry and they’re better at needlepoint–”’
‘Hip-hop,’ Jen interrupts, ‘black people are way better at poetry than us.’
She ponders for a second: ‘And the Indians are geniuses at sewing and shit.’
Short pause.
‘And the Chinese invented fireworks,’ she adds.
‘Fireworks?!’ Ransom snorts.
‘Fireworks – gooood,’ Nimrod essays, sagely, ‘gunpowder – baaad.’
‘Hmmn.’ Jen considers this for a second. ‘Okay … So the Chinese are great at haikus, gardening and calligraphy. And they invented Buddhism, which is really cool.’
‘You think one thing counters the other?’ Toby snorts.
‘Great news!’ Nimrod grins. ‘The invention of penicillin cancels out the evils of colonialism!’
‘Hallelujah!’ Toby declaims. ‘Jesus Christ cancels out the Arab-Israeli conflict!’
‘Thai green curry shits briquettes on the tsunami!’ Ransom chortles.
Toby and Nimrod exchange nervous glances.
‘Shits briquettes?’ Jen echoes, frowning. ‘You mean like charcoal briquettes?’
‘Huh?’ Ransom’s instantly defensive.
‘Shits briquettes?!’ Jen cackles. ‘That’s so fucking gay!’
‘If he doesn’t end up finding the ball, maybe I can build a little something out of it.’ Nimrod turns and glances back over towards the distant figure of Gene again. ‘Mention Gene by name. Talk about the cancer … Psychic caddie loses precious ball but wins eight-round battle against terminal cancer …’
‘Shits briquettes?!’ Jen’s crossing her legs and bending over with ill-suppressed hilarity. ‘I swear I’m gonna pee myself!’
‘Mention the silicone testicle’ – Ransom pointedly ignores Jen – ‘for a bit of colour.’
‘You think he’d be comfortable with that?’ Toby’s alarmed.
‘Of course! He lectures about it in schools for Christsakes. It’s a badge of friggin’ honour.’
‘Shits briquettes!’ Jen gurgles.
‘Take this.’ Ransom passes his mineral water to Toby, grabs Jen by the arm and escorts her (still knock-kneed) several paces away from the group.
‘Oh God, I really, really need a bush!’ she pants.
Ransom stares at her, scowling, until the panting abates a fraction.
‘You play a wind instrument,’ he murmurs, inspecting her upper lip.
‘Sure do.’
‘Clarinet?’
‘Fuck off!’ Jen squawks. ‘Trombone.’
‘How d’you manage to blow with that stupid thing stuck through your tongue?’
‘I take it out.’
Jen opens her mouth to reveal the stud, then curls the tip of her tongue around to jiggle it from underneath. Ransom watches this, appalled.
‘You do know what people think when they see a girl with a stud in her tongue?’ he asks, trying – but failing – to adopt a concerned, paternal tone.
Jen gazes up at him, quizzically, still jiggling.
‘They think, That girl loves giving head. She’s a slut – one level up from a prostitute.’
Jen snaps her mouth shut but continues to gaze up at him.
‘Give head – fellatio – blow-jobs,’ he elucidates.
‘Really?’
Her face falls.
Ransom starts to look uncomfortable, and then, ‘Of course it’s a sex aid!’ Jen grins, her expression joyous, illuminated. ‘Why the hell else would I bother getting it done?’
‘For fashion!’ Ransom’s suddenly almost indignant on her behalf.
‘Aw, wise up, Grandad!’ Jen pokes him, fondly, in the belly (which he immediately tightens). ‘And it’s worth bearing in mind,’ she adds, as an afterthought, slightly more serious now, ‘that we’re all little better than prostitutes in the West. Capitalism is our pimp, the banking system our client, consumerism the clap, celebrities our crabs … God – I’m dying for a waz …’
She commences walking (knock-kneed, grabbing clumsily at her catsuit), towards a nearby patch of rough, containing, she notes, delighted, an abundance of willows: the impressively sculptural Salix Viminalis to the centre, banked (on either side), by the startling black, native Salix Nigricans and daringly fronted by the low, purple skirts of Salix Purpurea.
‘Impressive planting!’ Jen yells over her shoulder, pointing. ‘Native species! Very good! Very sensitive …’
Ransom just scowls after her, in silence, critically out-manoeuvred, still holding in his stomach, both eyes red and prickling.
Valentine is standing in the hallway, the heavy receiver to the black Bakelite phone pressed against her ear. She is on hold, waiting to speak to someone at the bank. Nessa is lying prone on the tiles nearby, knickerless, wearing only a vest.
‘I’m swimming!’ she calls, kicking out her feet and paddling with her arms. ‘Look! Swimming!’
‘Where did you put your pants, Nessa?’ Valentine asks, irritated.
‘Swimming!’ Nessa gurgles, making fish faces as she breaststrokes.
‘You need to put on your pants, Nessa!’ Valentine snaps. ‘Now! D’you hear me?’
Nessa is offended by her sharp tone. She immediately sits up, pulling her feet into her body, linking her arms around her legs, making herself small, compressing herself.
‘Do you remember where you were when you took them off?’
Valentine instantly feels guilty.
Nessa shakes her head. She rests her chin on her knees and stares straight ahead, sullenly.
‘Answer the bloody phone, will you?’ Valentine mutters, slapping at her hip, impatiently. ‘Please! Before I lose my nerve completely.’
She hears the front gate squeal and turns her head, alarmed.
Noel?
Mum?
A cheerful trill of female voices – the creak of a faulty pram wheel. A child laughs. Two dark shadows appear on the front step, speaking in lightly accented English.
‘You take it all way too literally, Aamilah,’ one of the voices says as the door knocker is gently rapped.
‘She won’t hear that, Hana – way too soft. Knock again.’
‘She will hear it.’
&nbs
p; ‘She won’t hear it. I barely heard it myself. Let Riya have a go. Riya, lift the knocker and give it a good …’
The door knocker raps again, just once, hollowly.
‘Oh dear, oh dear. Very disappointing, Riya!’
‘Don’t be so mean, Hana – she did her best!’
‘You need to teach her to knock several times in a row. You can’t just knock something once. That isn’t a proper knock.’
‘It’s a sharp rap.’
‘No it isn’t. A sharp rap is like rat-a-tat-tat!’
Brief silence.
‘We should probably knock again.’
‘If we knock it again she’ll think we’re a bunch of lunatics. Bang-bang-bang! Bang-bang-bang! She’ll think we’ve come to arrest her or something.’
Pause.
‘Well she’s obviously not in.’
‘Of course she’s in! She’s agoraphobic, you idiot! She can’t go out. She’s always in.’
Valentine listens to this ongoing conversation standing – glued to the spot – by the aspidistra. She slowly puts down the phone receiver and winces as it produces a deafening ding.
‘Yaha! What was that?!’
‘What?’
‘A ringing sound!’
‘I didn’t hear anything.’
‘Seriously?!’
‘It’s probably just in your head.’
‘A ringing in my head?!’
‘Yes.’
‘No. I don’t think so, Hana.’
‘It’s hard to hear anything through all this bloody fabric.’
Brief pause.
‘Shall I take a little peek through the letterbox?’
‘No Aamilah!’
‘Why not?’
‘Oh do let’s make banana sago pudding when we get home! I really fancy some banana sago! Or sweet, stuffed plantain … Aamilah! Don’t!’
Valentine sees the letterbox being slowly pushed open and a pair of lively brown eyes being affixed to the gap.
‘Hana – there’s four hairy cats all staring straight at me and a little girl sitting on the cold tiles without any pants on!’
‘Get away from there, Aamilah. Stop snooping!’
Valentine flattens herself against the wall, hoping she’ll be obscured by the aspidistra, but then cringes with embarrassment as the eyes peer towards her, widen, then quickly withdraw again. The letterbox snaps shut.
The Yips Page 37