‘Best decision you ever made!’ Nimrod counters.
‘Sorry – who exactly are you expecting me to call?’ Gene’s bemused.
‘C’mon! Let’s do this!’ Ransom repeats, clapping his hands together, trying to get enthused. ‘This shit is fated, yeah? History in the making! It’s Destiny! Woo-hoo!’ he hollers, pumping the air with his fist. ‘Let’s embrace the Power of Now! Let’s jump into the abyss!’
Terence Nimrod springs to his feet. Gene dumps the golf bag, scowling, and rips off his cap. Toby Whittaker reaches for his phone. Jen pops a stick of gum into her mouth, with a smirk, then casually proffers a dumbstruck Del Renzio the rest of the pack.
Chapter 10
Sheila is standing on the small landing at the top of the stairs peering up at the hatch that leads into the rectory’s attic space. She is wearing a towel (having recently indulged in a quick – but extremely necessary – flannel wash at the bathroom sink), has a light bandage around her bad leg and an old pair of leather Clarks sandals (buckles loosely jangling, unfastened) on her feet.
After a few seconds’ indecision she sighs, mutters something indecipherable under her breath and hobbles into Stan’s room to fetch the chair from behind his desk. While she’s there, she turns on the computer – simply out of habit – waits for it to power up and then accesses the inbox. A selection of emails appears. Some are for Stan. Several are from various church bodies. One is from Valentine, sent (she checks the time) not long after her hasty exit. She grits her teeth and opens it.
‘i don’t know what to do to make this all better,’ it says (no capitals, no formal introduction to speak of), ‘just tell me what to do and i’ll do it. anything you want. i’ll tattoo r. if you like. i’m sitting here, researching some images. i have some ideas – good ideas (grass – images of). did you hear back from your friend with the gallery yet? i’m so sorry about what happened to your leg, sheila. i’m so sorry about, well, everything. I mean that from the very bottom of my idiotic heart. you’re a good person. i’m sorry I got so stroppy before (very ignorant – weak). just tell me what you need me to do and i’ll do it,
xx
valentine (wickers).
ps. please forgive my spelling. i can’t get the spellcheck to work for some reason.
x’
Sheila bites her lip. Her hand shifts the mouse to the ‘reply’ box and she clicks it:
‘Dear Valentine,’ she writes, ‘I’ve still not heard back from my friend with the gallery or from Ransom, yet – for that matter – but it’s early days and Gene’s on the case with Ransom even as we speak. Love the grass idea! Brings to mind (bit random – forgive me – a quote from Isaiah: All flesh is grass
And all its loveliness is like the flower of the field …
(Seems very appropriate under the circs.)
By the way – I’m so sorry I rushed off like that, earlier. I honestly did have a baptism at two (The hair was a sensation! They all absolutely loved it)!
re. the other problem: have you considered calling the police? Entrust them with your father’s collection for ‘safekeeping’. Say that you had no idea about the meter or the private store (Kill two birds with one stone).
Of course it goes without saying that I’ll back up your story if needs be … I just had oh sod it sod it sod it the strangest hospital bleugh brainstupidcauliflower …’
Sheila stops typing, draws a deep breath, and re-reads her response. She grimaces and deletes the last sentence. She re-reads it again, and when she reaches the sentence starting ‘Of course it goes without saying’, she repeats the phrase, out loud, in a light, posh, mocking voice, then tuts with frustration, straightens up, grabs the chair and drags it, unsteadily, into the hallway.
Once she’s positioned it to her satisfaction she clambers on to it, wincing, and pushes up the hatch into the attic (blinking rapidly as a small army of tiny, dead black beetles and spiders’ webs fall into her upturned face). She feels around inside the hatch for the metal ladder which she carefully unfolds, then clambers off the chair – using the ladder for support – tests that it’s secure and begins climbing the rungs, very slowly, one at a time, muttering ow ow ow ow under her breath with every successive step she takes.
Halfway up, her towel starts to fall off. She snatches at it but then finds herself unable to retie it with only one free arm (and the weight gingerly held off her injured leg), so grimaces, drops it, and continues her ascent, naked.
‘Ridiculous!’ she mutters, as her head accesses the dark of the roof-space. ‘Completely ridiculous!’
She waits patiently for her eyes to adjust to the light.
‘Where are you, old buddy?’ she murmurs glancing around, squinting slightly. She then continues to climb until she’s able to press her palms flat on to the floor, transfer her weight on to them, twizzle around and sit down.
She catches her breath for a minute, then pulls her legs through the hatch, centres herself and stands up. On the wall to her right is a light switch. She flicks it. Nothing.
‘Typical!’ she grumbles, then peers down at the floor (to make sure she’s walking on solid boards) and inches her way forward, reaching out, blindly, for the cluster of objects that quickly crowd into the void of space around her.
Soon her eager fingers are grappling with the unsympathetic corners and edges of a series of crates and boxes, then pushing (even worse) into the doughy, dusty plastic of sacks and bin-bags full of clothes and fabric. Eventually (a gasp of recognition!) she finds what she’s looking for: a large, old leather suitcase from her Oxford days (a gift from her grandparents).
She grabs the handle, and – grunting loudly – lifts it free of the surrounding clutter then staggers over to the open hatch with it. She puts it down for a minute and rubs her sweating forehead with the back of her arm (briefly assessing how best to proceed). She picks it up again and tries to push it through the hatch but it will not fit. She curses (then promptly reprimands herself), bends over and retrieves it, slams it down, opens it and commences emptying out its contents, carelessly at first (a gown, some rolled-up posters, several bottles of exotic hair dye, three knitted hats, a college scarf, an old pair of oxblood-red nineteen-hole DMs with steel toe-caps …).
She holds the boots up close to her face, chuckling, then sits down – temporarily seduced – her legs poking out through the hatch again, to assess the remainder of the case’s contents in a more leisurely manner.
Next – with a delighted gasp – she pulls out an old, red and black striped mohair jumper with overlong arms. The neck has gone and it’s full of holes, but she sniffs it, kisses it, her eyes filling with tears, holding it up, shuddering, against her cheek. She then digs into the case again and withdraws an old bottle of perfume (White Musk from the Body Shop), unstoppers it and sprays some on to her neck, then winces (it’s gone off). Finally she pulls out a roughly made, hand-sewn banner (four feet by three feet), torn down one side, proclaiming the legend: O.U.S.U.:
FIGHT THE TAX!
She smirks her recognition, runs her fingers over the scruffy stitching, then gently re-folds it and places it to one side with the remainder of the case’s other contents.
‘Okay …’ She closes the case, zips it up and tries to fit it through the hatch again. This time it almost squeezes through, but not quite. The ladder gets in the way but it’s the handle that actually lodges it. She scratches her head. ‘How the hell’d he get the damn thing up here in the first place,’ she mutters, ‘if it can’t …?’
She ponders this conundrum for a minute then attempts to resolve it with a hefty kick. The case hardly shifts and her sandal comes flying off, dropping down to the landing below.
‘Oh for heaven’s sake!’ she exclaims, kneeling down (the leg apparently no longer troubling her) and trying to yank it free with her hands. It won’t budge.
‘Oh come on!’
She tries again but makes no progress. She then loses her temper and punches it, repeatedly with her fists, almost
losing her balance and toppling down on top of it, head first.
She draws back, alarmed, her leg starting to ache again, feeling light-headed and nauseous. She rests her forehead inside the crook of her arm, panting gently, and tries to think her way around the problem. After a minute or two she drops her arm and throws back her head, exasperated.
‘Am I stuck up here?’ she asks the rafters, her fists clenching, her face defiant. The rafters hold their lofty counsel.
‘Seriously. Seriously! Am I actually stuck up here?!’ she repeats, furious.
Still, no audible response from the wise beams above.
Valentine perches at her computer in her red and white dress, her head still completely covered by Aamilah’s spare niqab. Her mother is standing in the doorway, watching her closely as she prints out a series of photographs depicting different types and textures of grass (some fine, some dense, some long, some rough, some carefully manicured).
After a couple of minutes Valentine senses a presence behind her. She turns.
‘D’you want something, Mum?’ she asks, slightly irritated. ‘I thought you were having a quiet lie down for an hour?’
‘Why are you wearing that mask?’ her mother demands (with an expansive gesture of the hands).
‘It’s not a mask,’ Valentine explains. ‘It’s a niqab.’
‘Hmmn.’ Her mother grimaces, not entirely satisfied with this response.
Valentine returns to her print-outs.
‘Are you hiding something again?’ her mother persists.
‘No.’ Valentine shakes her head. She pauses. ‘Again?’
‘You were always the most awful, sullen child,’ her mother sighs (yet more expansive gestures). ‘Full of pointless secrets. I’d say, “Tell me the problem, Valentine, confide in your mama,” and you’d say …’(her mother adopts the most ridiculous, keening voice), ‘“There’s a flickering, little light inside of me, ma mère. I need to shelter it with my hands so’s the wind can’t blow it out. I need to keep it secret. I need to keep it safe …” Ah oui!’ her mother sighs. ‘You were completely loco – a loony-tune! – even back then.’
Valentine has fully turned from the computer and is now staring at her mother, intrigued.
‘I actually said that?’ she asks, touched (against all her instincts). ‘About the little, flickering light?’
‘Yes.’ Her mother nods, then pauses, thoughtfully, pushing some hair behind her ears. ‘Or maybe that was Noel?’ She frowns. ‘Or maybe that was Frédérique? Frédérique was always an incredibly clever and poetic child.’
‘But I thought …’ Valentine scowls, confused.
‘Yes’ – her mother nods – ‘yes. Merci. That was me. I was Frédérique. I was she.’
She curtseys, holding out her skirt.
Valentine stares at her, suspiciously. ‘What’s that you’re wearing on your hands?’ she asks.
‘Pardon moi?’
Her mother fans her face, coquettishly.
Valentine stands up. ‘Those rings – where did you get them from?’
‘These?’ Her mother inspects her fingers. ‘Karim gave them to me, as a token. Après nous avons fait l’amour.’
She giggles, coyly.
‘I don’t think he did.’
Valentine walks towards her and grabs her wrist. Each finger is decorated with a ring – some with two or even three – from her father’s collection.
‘Ow!’ her mother exclaims, snatching back her hand. ‘Let me go! Salope! Always so rough! Such a bully!’
She turns and scampers off.
‘You can’t have those!’ Valentine pursues her down the hallway, cornering her at the bottom of the stairs, holding her against the wall and yanking the rings – one by one – from her fingers. ‘You had no business taking them, Mum!’
‘They’re my rings!’ her mother bellows. ‘Touts les miens! My house! My hands! My life! My rings!’
Valentine wrenches the final ring from her fingers and carries them away with her, her mother now in hot pursuit.
‘Give them back!’ her mother yells.
‘No!’ Valentine charges into the kitchen where a cardboard box (in which she’d earlier stored her father’s collection – and then carefully hidden it, under the sink) now sits, open, recently pilfered, on the kitchen table. She throws the rings inside and starts closing the lid. Her mother flies at her, determined to get them back.
‘You don’t know what you’re doing!’ Valentine pushes her away – more violently, perhaps, than she’d intended – shoving her back, flailing, into the hall. ‘These aren’t for you to wear. They’re Dad’s!’
‘They’re mine, salaud !’ her mother yells.
Valentine picks up the box and holds it in front of her, walking around to the other side of the table to try and maintain a solid, passive space between them both. Her mother prowls around the table after her. On the third circuit her mother starts to pick up speed. Soon they are both running.
All will be well, Valentine is thinking, all will be well. She wonders what Hamra would do. Empty Hamra, uncompromised Hamra, red Hamra, free Hamra, dead Hamra, fearless Hamra. Then it dawns on her.
‘I should’ve done this years ago,’ she mutters, heading for the back door.
‘What are you doing?’ her mother demands, grinding to a halt, shocked.
‘I’m getting rid of them.’ Valentine removes the key from the lock, wrenches the door open, steps outside, slams it shut again, drops the box and locks it before her mother can elbow her way through.
‘You can’t go out there!’ Her mother presses herself up against the window, outraged.
Valentine grabs the box and charges down the garden. There is a small, slightly rusty portable waste incinerator standing close to the shed. She places the box next to it and goes into the shed to find charcoal, an old lighter, some kindling and a can of petrol, then returns outside clutching them.
Her mother is banging against the back door and yelling.
‘All will be well,’ Valentine murmurs, her hands shaking, uncontrollably, ‘all will be well.’
She carefully places the charcoal, the kindling, the boxed and un-boxed rings – not forgetting the purse and the whip – inside the incinerator, then douses them with petrol. She tears the box itself into workable segments, presses it down on top, adds more petrol and then replaces the lid. She steps back, appraising her work, the lighter in her hand. She tries to draw a deep breath but can’t inhale.
‘All will be well,’ she murmurs, striking the lighter, kneeling down and holding it to one of several holes cut into the lower section of the metal bin. The flame flares, touches the kindling, then instantly goes out. She strikes it a second time, then a third. The fourth time the kindling takes. No sooner has she started to celebrate its finally catching than she’s toppling back, alarmed, as the entire incinerator is engulfed in flames. A huge tongue of fire snakes from the metal chimney in its lid, reaching several feet into the air and setting light to the lower branches of an ash tree that hangs into the garden over the fence from next door.
‘Oh God!’ Valentine scrambles a few feet away then rises to her knees, her hands covering her mouth. When the sight gets too distressing she closes her eyes. She feels the heat on her face. She feels the hard ground pressing into her shins.
‘All will be well,’ she tells herself, then sinks back on to her heels, her fingers splayed into the grass. She feels it under her fingers. She starts to delineate individual strands. She opens her eyes and gazes at it, bringing her veiled face forward, drawing closer – inch by gradual inch – to the ground. Soon her nose is pressed into it, her forehead. She is completely bent over, suppliant, bowed down.
‘Take me,’ she murmurs, hearing the whoosh and crackle of the flames through her veil, hearing the individual leaves sizzle, the metal knock, the creak of wood – every sound so neatly contained, so strictly partitioned, so singular, and yet so thoroughly consumed and subsumed by the fire’s hungry roar.
>
She feels a sense of quietness deep within herself, of space, of peace. I am a void, she thinks. I am done. I am beyond care – beyond fear.
How long does she lie there? She cannot tell. But when she finally lifts her head the flames have gone; the metal bin no longer belches fire, only smoke. The fence is singed, and part of the shed’s grey roof. The air around her plays host to a thousand tiny black flakes of dark confetti – originating from some mysterious source – which float downwards then seem to evaporate, like tokens in celebration not of an earthly union, but of a curious undoing – a gradual unravelling – which is at once the start of something and the glorious beginning of another ending.
Valentine stands up and walks, mechanically – almost zombie-like – to the back door. She turns the key in the lock and twists the handle. The door stays shut. The bolt has been shot. She barely reacts, just walks over to a nearby rockery, picks up a half-brick, carries it back with her and smashes the window with it. She does a thorough job: knocking out any sharp or jagged fragments, dropping the brick, then shoving her arm through the gap and un-shooting the bolt.
Inside the kitchen all is chaos. Her mother has tipped over the dresser and turned the table on to its side. Enamelware lies chipped and dented in every corner. The kitchen cabinets have been kicked and gouged and scratched. Even the curtains have been ripped down from the window.
Valentine walks through the chaos, into the hallway and pauses, briefly, in the doorway to her studio. This room has also been trashed – perhaps a fraction less thoroughly – her inks cabinet has been pulled open but only a half-dozen bottles smashed. Towels cover the floor. The taps are on (Valentine goes to turn them off). The printer lies in pieces, although the computer gives every appearance of still being functional.
A phone starts to ring. Valentine turns and is drawn – trance-like – towards its sound. On her way to answering it she passes by the sitting room where she espies her mother, face-down on the sofa, arms and legs thrown out, replete; exhausted. On the floor around her lie several photos from Valentine’s portfolio (ripped in half) and her shrine, upended, the photo of Kali crushed into a ball, the string of Japa Mala beads snapped and the beads themselves scattered.
The Yips Page 43