‘No.’ He shakes his head, then quickly reconsiders. ‘Only I’m sorry.’
‘That it?’
‘Uh. Yes.’ He frowns. ‘Me think so.’
‘Fine.’
She releases the doors-open button and prods the ground floor one.
‘Go pack your bag,’ she tells him, refusing all eye contact. ‘We leavin’ here tonight.’
‘Tonight?’ he echoes, then, ‘It not Jen fault!’ he squeaks. ‘Me hate the drum! You know me got no rhythm!’
The doors close.
‘Ma!’ he yells.
The doors open again. She stares out at him, her eyes glowing like embers.
‘You forget ya money.’
She doesn’t move, just continues to stare, unblinking.
The doors close again.
‘Holy shit,’ he mutters.
* * *
‘Say that again,’ Noel prompts her.
‘I’m tattooing Stuart Ransom.’
Noel sits down on the bottom stair, stunned.
‘Tonight,’ Valentine adds. ‘I’ve got a baby-sitter.’
‘You’re going out?’ Noel is incredulous.
‘He didn’t want to come to the house.’
‘I wouldn’t let him in the house!’ Noel snorts.
Valentine is just about to offer a tart rejoinder about there not being a house for much longer when their mother emerges from the sitting room eating a bowlful of cold Ambrosia Creamed Rice.
‘Fuck off, Mum,’ Noel hisses. He gestures, dismissively.
She just stands and gazes at him, balefully, as she eats.
‘FUCK OFF, MUM!’ he yells, springing to his feet.
His mother shows him the finger and stalks away.
‘Don’t take it out on her!’ Valentine automatically leaps to her mother’s defence.
‘So all that bullshit about not being able to leave the house …’ Noel starts off.
‘I’ve been approached by a woman who thinks my work might be ready to exhibit,’ Valentine explains.
‘I’m always telling you that!’ Noel’s outraged.
‘She has contacts with this powerful London agent …’
‘Bully for you!’ Noel snaps. ‘But what the fuck does Stuart fucking Ransom have to do with all of this?’
‘She thinks it’d be good publicity.’
Noel just gawps at her.
‘I know it hasn’t worked out that way before …’ Valentine murmurs, almost ashamed.
‘Have you lost your mind?’ Noel whispers, awed. ‘After everything he’s put us through, Vee?’
Valentine just shakes her head.
‘She shakes her head!’ Noel laughs, playing to an imaginary crowd.
‘You both made that stupid deal with the insurance people, remember?’ Valentine admonishes him. ‘To keep it in the public eye – play on the original grudge – earn yourself kickbacks. You actively courted the publicity after Dad died. And it was all just pretend – a lie! You made a farce out of what happened!’
‘He did that!’ Noel exclaims.
‘But you knew it was all just baloney – that it was high stakes – and you didn’t give a hoot. He just happened to play a better game than you did and that pissed you off. You began to forget what it was all really about – Mum – me – our family …’
‘He blackened my fucking name!’ Noel’s furious. ‘He twisted things! He made me look a twat! I was the victim, and he made me look a twat!’
‘Mum was the victim!’ Valentine’s outraged. ‘Not you, not Dad …’
‘And now you’re going to tattoo him?’ Noel holds up his hands, incredulous.
‘I just want …’ Valentine starts off.
‘You’re gonna regret this.’ Noel shoves past her and heads down the hallway. He slams into the kitchen and tries to turn on the light. It won’t turn on. He swears and strides back out into the hallway again. He tries another light switch – still nothing.
‘When did the electricity go off?’ He pushes past Valentine and yanks open the little cupboard that houses the meter. The meter – which is now leaning, at an unsteady angle, half inside the small safe it once obscured – threatens to tip out. He grabs it, expostulating.
‘What the fuck happened here? Where’s all Dad’s stuff gone?’
‘The meter fell off,’ Valentine explains, uneasy now, ‘so I took the stuff out and I …’
He slams the cupboard door shut.
‘Where is it?’ he asks.
‘Burned.’
Noel just gazes at her.
‘I burned it,’ Valentine repeats, ‘outside. In the incinerator.’
‘You burned Dad’s collection?’
Noel leans back against the wall, stunned.
‘After I found the letter,’ Valentine adds.
‘Letter?’ Noel mumbles.
‘From the bank. Saying they’re going to sell the house. This house,’ she adds, ‘our home.’
‘I can’t believe you burned them.’ Noel stares at her, mesmerized.
‘We should’ve done it years ago,’ Valentine maintains. ‘It was stupid to try and sell them. If the wrong person got wind of it the publicity would destroy everything I’ve …’ – she falters – ‘… we’ve worked so hard to …’
‘You think you’re some kind of a saint!’ Noel laughs. ‘I swear to God you think you’re some kind of a fucking –’
‘The meter fell out of the wall!’ Valentine yells. ‘It nearly broke this woman’s leg! She saw all the boxes! She was holding the wallet in her hand !’
‘You’re insane.’ Noel shakes his head, disgusted.
‘If you’d sold them …’ Valentine persists.
‘I wasn’t going to sell them!’ Noel slaps his palm against the wall, barely controlling his anger. ‘I was never going to sell them, you fucking idiot!’
‘Then why keep them hidden here all this time?’ Valentine demands. ‘And lie about it on top?’
Noel sits down on the stairs again, lounges back on to his elbow and smilingly appraises his sister.
‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ she asks, spooked.
‘You don’t think very much of me, do you?’ Noel grins. ‘Same as Dad. You’re exactly the same as he was. You think I’m a fucking retard – a failure, a loser.’
‘That’s rubbish!’ Valentine’s outraged.
‘Oh yeah, but Valentine’s the good one – the arty one, the clever one. Valentine’s Daddy’s little angel – the great, fucking tattoo artist. The big, fucking party girl who suddenly decides – when everyone needs her the most – to just lock herself away! So vulnerable! So sensitive! Poor, little Valentine – playing the victim, same as always. And me? Eh? Who am I? Just the fuck-up, the block-head, the flunky, the errand boy who can’t ever do anything fucking right !’
‘You said you’d get rid of them!’ Valentine’s still indignant.
‘I’ve just spent the best part of two years – two years! – negotiating a deal with a holocaust museum.’
‘Straight after he died,’ she continues, ignoring him, ‘you promised!’
‘I just negotiated a deal,’ Noel repeats, losing his temper again, ‘to donate them to a fucking museum, you fucking half-wit!’
Valentine just stares at him.
‘Did you hear me?’ he asks, quieter now.
‘I heard you.’ Valentine nods.
‘I can’t believe you fucking burned them!’ Noel exclaims.
‘Which museum?’ Valentine demands.
‘What does it matter which museum?! You fucking burned them!’
‘You should’ve told me,’ Valentine murmurs. ‘How was I expected to know?’
‘This was my way of making things right,’ Noel hisses. ‘This was my moment – my way of making things sit better. But now you’ve gone and stuck your fucking oar in and you’ve ruined it, same as you always do!’
He stands up and quickly darts forwards (she instinctively flinches) then just politely sidesteps her, with a tired,
dry laugh.
‘If I wasn’t bumping I’d’ve fucking killed you for this,’ he whispers, then offers her a limp-fingered, bittersweet salute and quietly leaves the house.
* * *
Vicki is standing with Jen by the boot of the Kia. Vicki is handing her some money. Jen is looking confused.
‘But this is double the amount we agreed,’ she murmurs, mystified.
‘I know’ – Vicki nods – ‘because I’m hoping to take up a little more of your time.’
‘Oh. Okay,’ Jen promptly agrees. ‘Although I’m meant to be baby-sitting at eight …’
Vicki opens the Kia’s compact boot. ‘Would you mind checking to see if anything’s left in there?’ she asks.
Jen turns and leans into the boot. She closely scans inside it. There’s nothing in there. She’s about to say, ‘There’s nothing in here,’ but before she can open her mouth, Vicki has delivered her a hefty shove from the rear, half up-ended her into the boot, grabbed her legs, tossed them in and deftly slammed it shut.
‘I know who you’re working for,’ she announces, coldly, then walks to the driver’s side, climbs in, starts the engine, fastens her seat belt and calmly pushes the gears into reverse.
Gene guides Mallory ahead of him into the house – like a little human shield – his hands resting lightly on either shoulder. Once inside he removes her school blazer, hangs it on a hook alongside his military jacket, then looks around – somewhat anxiously – for Sheila.
‘Is that you, Gene?’
A muffled voice.
‘Sheila?’
He turns on the spot.
‘Help! I’m stuck in the bloody attic!’
He walks to the bottom of the stairs and peers up. From this vantage point he can see the hatch into the loft which is blocked by … he squints … a suitcase?
‘The case got lodged,’ Sheila yells (as he mounts the stairs, two at a time), ‘… and I’ve managed to hurt my leg.’
‘Is it bad?’ Gene grabs the fallen towel and passes it to Mallory who obligingly heads off to the bathroom – ever fastidious – to hang it over the heated rail. He kicks away the single sandal, climbs a few rungs of the ladder and begins wiggling the case to try and release it.
‘I don’t know how you got the damn thing up here in the first place!’ Sheila tries helping from her side.
‘Have you been trapped for long?’ Gene enquires.
‘Forty minutes – an hour?’
‘If you’d only just waited till I got back …’ he reprimands her as the case is gradually un-lodged and starts to inch through the gap.
‘Thank God for that!’
No sooner is the case in motion than Sheila is tossing down her other sandal – it bounces off Gene’s shoulder – and following it down herself. Gene drops the case and quickly straightens up to try and guide her.
‘I’m fine!’ she snaps. ‘Step back – don’t touch the leg!’
She emerges, naked, but for a bandage and an ill-fitting mohair jumper (one nipple hangs through a hole. It barely skims her buttocks).
‘What on earth …?’ He is about to enquire about her nudity (then her injury), but is startled into silence by her new haircut. Mallory has now returned and is standing beside him, equally astonished – it would seem – by Sheila’s ungainly emergence.
‘Mummy! Your hair !’ she gasps, followed by, ‘What are you wearing?!’
‘Perhaps you should go and put the kettle on,’ Gene suggests, guiding her (his little shield again) towards the stairs. Mallory is less keen to oblige him this time around. She goes down backwards, one step at a time – clinging on to the banister – eyeing the transformed Sheila (horror-struck) all the while.
Sheila limps into their bedroom.
‘I forgot how itchy this thing always was against the skin,’ she grumbles, pulling it off over her head and grabbing her dressing gown from behind the door (virtually slamming it into Gene’s face as he tries to follow her). He waits for a second and then cautiously enters.
Sheila is inspecting her filthy hands.
‘What happened to your leg?’ he asks.
‘Uh …’ She looks up, vaguely. ‘The electricity meter.’
Gene waits for more information, his eyes moving, anxiously, between the bandage and her shorn hair.
‘It fell off,’ she adds, ‘and thwacked me’ – she points – ‘right there.’
‘Is it bad?’
‘I passed out – only very briefly – during a baptism.’ She shrugs. ‘They initially thought the bone might be cracked, but turns out it’s only chipped. There’s a big blood blister …’
Gene inspects the slight swelling on her foot. ‘Shouldn’t you be resting it?’
Sheila doesn’t answer. She is gazing off, unfocused, into the middle distance.
‘Is something … is something up? Wrong?’ Gene wonders – suddenly curiously inarticulate – finding himself parched and alone in a linguistic desert – verbally dry – barely capable of placing one, exhausted syllable in front of the other.
‘Something wrong?’ Sheila echoes, gazing at him, owlishly.
‘It just feels like something’s … something’s happened, maybe?’
‘It actually dawned on me while I was stuck up in the attic,’ Sheila muses. ‘It was ridiculously hot up there – stuffy – and I was completely naked … uh …’
She looks momentarily distracted.
‘You were saying?’ Gene prompts her.
‘Yes.’ She nods. ‘I was sat up there and I was thinking that either something amazing was happening to me – is happening – connected to faith, I guess – to God; either that or I’m completely losing my marbles.’
She grins.
‘And you think that’s funny?’ Gene murmurs, visibly alarmed.
‘I’ve taken a pile of painkillers, so I reasoned that it was just …’
She fades out again, then refocuses, without any prompting. ‘I actually barked at these kids the other day!’ she snorts.
‘Barked?’ Gene echoes.
‘Yes. I barked at them. Asian kids – messing around out back. I woofed. Then I sang a hymn. “Once in Royal David’s City”, which – as you probably know – has always been a hymn I’ve found especially dreary.’
‘You didn’t mention that before.’ Gene frowns.
‘About the hymn?’
‘About the barking.’
‘Maybe that’s why they call it “barking mad”,’ she quips, flatly.
‘Were you up in the attic for any particular reason?’ Gene wonders.
‘Yeah …’ She looks around her, distracted again.
‘You brought down your old suitcase.’
‘I did.’ She nods. ‘In fact …’
She sits down on the bed. ‘It’s been a very odd day. Almost like a dream.’
She puts a hand to her hair then leans forward and tries to inspect herself in the dressing table mirror.
‘That’s a pretty radical haircut,’ Gene murmurs. ‘Quite a departure. I mean it’s … I … I like it. It’s very …’
‘Radical?!’ Sheila chuckles, amused (almost indifferent), teasing it with her fingers. ‘Valentine cut it for me. The fringe was all …’ She flaps her hands (like it’s too much effort to explain in full). ‘In fact while we’re on the subject of Valentine’ – she gazes up at him, accusingly – ‘I just can’t believe you didn’t tell me about …’
‘Kettle’s boiled!’
Mallory pops her head around the door.
Gene is frozen to the spot.
‘Did you heat the pot?’ Sheila asks.
Mallory nods.
‘Good. Well I fancy half and half – one Earl Grey, one Breakfast Tea. Just two bags if that’s okay …’
Mallory nods again.
‘And I’ve bought us a McVitie’s Jamaican Ginger Cake as a treat – it’s very soft so you should be able to manage a little bit of it. I’ve put it in the bread bin. Take it out and cut a few slices – not to
o many. Be very, very careful with the knife. We’ll both be down in a minute.’
Mallory nods then half-turns as the land-line in the hallway starts to ring.
‘Ignore that,’ Sheila instructs her, ‘it’ll only be work. Oh, and while you’re still here’ – she grins – ‘I should probably warn you that I have a big piece of news to share with you over tea – exciting news.’
‘Yipeee!’ Mallory claps her hands and skips off, delighted.
‘We’re going to Eurodisney!’ she sings, all the way down the stairs.
‘Eurodisney!’ Sheila snorts. ‘Good try, kiddo!’ she shouts. ‘Better luck next time, eh?!’
Gene hasn’t moved. He is in a state of profound mental and emotional turmoil. His mouth is dry. His eyes are burning. He parts his lips to speak at exactly the same instant as Mallory trills: ‘I love your new hair, Mummy!’ from the bottom of the stairs.
‘Thank you, Mallory,’ Sheila shouts back, then turns to Gene with a fond smile. ‘Aw! Bless her!’
‘Big news?’ Gene creaks.
‘Did you get my text?’ Sheila asks (determined not to be diverted from her original course). He nods, grimly, expecting the worst – almost willing her to know everything simply to save him from the trouble of saying it out loud; composing it into tawdry sentences. So many words available … he muses (moving from his former state of verbal paucity to one of verbal superfluity in the course of a mere instant), feeling himself floating – without hope or sense or mass – in an alien constellation of possible nouns, verbs and pronouns.
‘It was just so uncomfortable – embarrassing,’ she clucks, ‘I mean she had no idea that you were working with Ransom, for starters –’
‘I didn’t think …’ Gene tries to interject.
‘And she didn’t have a clue about the letter.’
‘The letter?’ Gene echoes.
‘From the bank. The one you said you’d found. She had no idea – not an inkling. So when I mentioned it – thinking she already knew – she had this awful kind of … of mini-meltdown. Then the bloody meter fell out of the cupboard. Nessa was sitting on the floor just behind me so I took the weight of it on my leg.’ She points to her bandage. ‘Valentine had run upstairs, in floods of tears, meanwhile …’
Gene winces.
‘And that’s when I find the little safe – the collection. It was all just so …’ – she draws a deep breath – ‘so completely overwhelming.’
The Yips Page 45