According to YES

by Dawn French

‘And study, of course,’ Glenn reminds him.

  ‘And study, of course.’ Teddy agrees. ‘Oh, thanks Iva, yeah, I love … this stuff,’ he says, as a bowl of something cabbagey is put in front of him. He shoots a knowing glance at Thomas and Kemble and the family share a brief clandestine old joke.

  In these times of conflict, Teddy is grateful for any shared levity with his disappointing father. Humour used to be their thing. Their house was full of it once, and through that, Teddy felt safe and clever and part of his dad. Then, there were a weird few years when Kemble seemed to float away. He wasn’t at home as often and when he was, there were serious rows with his mother, which would often leave her in tears. Teddy would try to comfort Natalie, but not really know how to. He didn’t know what to say to fix it, he really wanted to find those magic words that would cheer her up. Natalie and Kemble talked behind closed doors in their apartment, sometimes voices were raised, but always there were cover-over-the-cracks smiles for the kids. Teddy learned not to trust those smiles, they felt different to the easy true smiles that accompany real laughs and jokes. He longs for those again, and he grabs any opportunity. Even cabbage. The approval Teddy feels in those reflected knowing looks from his father and grandfather is disproportionate to the joke, but it doesn’t matter, he’s grateful for a tiny slice of tribe.

  Glenn surveys her breakfast table, and announces, ‘I like this view very much, I get to have all my boys around me at the same time. Now …’ She gets up, ‘I have … many things to do …’

  She doesn’t.

  ‘So if you will … excuse me, I will catch up with you all later …’ and she calmly leaves the room, smiling carefully, off to endure another day of nothing much. As always, the room lightens when she leaves, they all relax a tiny bit more. Iva bustles about, clearing dishes and filling up the boys’ glasses with fruit juice. Even Teddy’s, which is old habit.

  Rosie has been sitting quietly, watching all the interesting dynamics now that this new younger energy has entered the arena. Teddy is incredibly tall and lean, with the beginnings of a wispy beard sprouting Amish-like under and on his chin. He is so very definitely made of both his parents. He has Kemble’s big hands and strong dark eyebrows, and he has Natalie’s astonishing, unmistakeable green eyes.

  ‘Hello, by the way, I’m the nanny-type person.’

  ‘Oh yes, hi, Mom told me about you, I was kinda imagining you as Swedish though?’

  ‘Really? No, I’m resolutely English, no real plan to change that, sorry. I know what a hurdy-gurdy is, and I’ve eaten herring in my life, but that’s about the extent of my Swedishness … I’m afraid.’

  ‘Right …’ He says, weighing her up, trying to decide if she’s funny funny, merely funny, or just plain odd. She stands out as a bit odd in this apartment, she’s chubby and cheerful and colourful and eccentric. He likes her immediately.

  ‘Well, I’m Teddy. Eldest. Cleverest. And best looking. I’m the most damaged by the divorce, which translates as: you have to feel most sorry for me.’

  Kemble rolls his eyes at this chutzpah.

  ‘Get it,’ replies Rosie. ‘Well, I’m Rosie, sometimes referred to by beloveds as Rosie Big Boobs, but that would, of course, be utterly inappropriate to say out loud in this varied age and strongly male environment, so I won’t. Blood group O. Best bribe: chocolate.’

  She pretty much floors them all with this. They are silent and open-mouthed around the table.

  ‘So,’ she continues, ‘wanna help us build a glorious garden?’

  ‘Cool,’ says Teddy, imagining that’s exactly what it will be.

  Three pipes up, ‘Can he come on the surprise journey today too?’

  ‘Hmmm,’ she ruminates, ‘us guys have made a pact to keep it secret, and I totally trust us guys, so whaddya reckon?’

  ‘Hey, come on!’ Teddy pleads.

  The twins enjoy having the power over their older brother’s fate, and chortle away to each other, pretending it’s a big decision, ‘Yeah, OK, we think he can do it. He will keep the secret,’ they grandly bestow their permission.

  ‘What actually is the secret?’ asks Red.

  ‘Wouldn’t be a secret if I said …’ she replies.

  Teddy joins in, ‘A lady with secrets. I like it.’

  ‘Shhh,’ she says, and taps the side of her nose as if she’s a spy. ‘Let the journey begin. Coats on, lads.’

  ‘What if I don’t like the secret?’ Red says as they leave.

  ‘I guarandamntee you will,’ says Rosie.

  And up they get, Rosie, Teddy and the twins, off for an adventure in the city, leaving Thomas and Kemble to drain their coffee cups and wish they could be part of the fun.

  Trains

  As the four intrepid explorers emerge from the subway at 59th Street and Lexington Avenue, Three is complaining, ‘But you said the secret would be found on the train? It wasn’t.’

  ‘Yeh,’ Red chimes in, ‘How come we’re up on the street again?’

  Rosie answers the impatient twosome, ‘I categorically didn’t say it was on the train. I categorically did say it was to be found on a train.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ says Teddy, ‘looks like you’re gonna have to wriggle outta this one.’

  ‘Have faith please, gentlemen, there’s more to this than meets the eye. You are thinking far too literally. All your logic is too earth-bound.’

  ‘Isn’t a train a totally earth-bound phenomenon?’ Teddy questions, clearly intrigued by the whole idea, ‘I mean either on the ground or under it, surely …?’

  ‘Yeh,’ says Three thinking fast, ‘or it could be on a monorail, like those ones we went on in Disneyland?’

  ‘Yeh,’ Red agrees, ‘but there’s nothing like that here.’

  Rosie is quick to refute this, ‘Oh, isn’t there?’ and she sets off towards 3rd Avenue.

  The other three have to walk pretty fast to keep up with her as she is setting a brisk old pace. They shout quickfire questions at her bright-green back, as they whisk along the cracked sidewalks, avoiding slow-walkers and old compacted lumps of unmelted ice from the frozen weather. Rosie doesn’t answer, she has her head down and is determined to lead with confidence even though this is their city, not hers.

  As they round the corner on to 3rd Avenue, Teddy has a grim realization.

  ‘Oh my God, she’s brought us to Bloomies, guys, she wants to shop.’

  ‘I hate Bloomingdales.’

  ‘Oh no. Mercy.’

  ‘Please, not shopping,’ the boys plead.

  She turns, ‘Do you want to uncover the secret or not?’

  Teddy looks at the twins. ‘Yes. We do,’ he answers on all of their behalves.

  ‘Right. Well zip it and follow me. Stay close because frankly, m’laddios, this is combat inside those doors, and we need to have eyeballs on each other at all times to survive. Got it?’

  ‘Yes sir,’ says Red.

  ‘Ma’am,’ corrects Three.

  She shakes their hands, ‘For God, England and North America, good luck …’ and with that, she flings open the giant art deco iron doors and dives into the slipstream of the pushy crowd coming and going. She feels the warmth of Three’s small hand creep into hers and as she looks back, she sees that they have formed a daisy chain of brothers, linked together by hand and all following her intently. She is the mama duck.

  Rosie finds the escalators in the middle of the store and stays on them, travelling up up up to the sixth floor, where she heads towards the kitchen appliance department. Past the liquidizers, the fat-free fryers, the high-speed whisks, the spotty mugs, to a surprising chrome stairway, which looks like the glamorous entrance to a cruise liner from the roaring twenties. Up they go until they come to a narrow corridor. Are they still in Bloomingdales? It’s so surreal! Here in front of them all is the side of an old French train, pulled in at the platform they appear to be standing on. A sign points to an open carriage door, ‘Le Train Bleu’. Rosie ushers the wide-eyed boys through the door into a vintage dining
car, all laid up with crisp white table linen, gleaming silver cutlery and tinging glass goblets. It’s a restaurant, in a train, on the sixth floor of Bloomingdales, which could, for all the world, be hurtling between Calais and the French Riviera in 1924! The walls are wood and mirror-panelled, with little table lights and cream shades on every table. The ceiling is padded with green fabric and wood struts and there are delicate French glass lights and subtle bistro chandeliers with chrome fans in between. One whole side has windows looking out onto Manhattan.

  Four or five elegant tables have elegant diners at them, and in the furthest corner there is one very special diner sitting alone at a table laid for four. She has her back to the boys, but it doesn’t take long before they recognize the familiar compact frame and expensively highlighted blonde crop of their mum. All three boys rush to her and she gathers them into her arms and showers them with lots of silly little kisses. They pretend not to like it, but nobody resists too much.

  She especially greets Teddy, who she hasn’t seen for a month or so.

  ‘Teds! Mon Dieu! You’ve gotten so thin!’

  ‘S’one of the benefits of emotional turmoil, Mom.’

  She laughs and looks hurt at the same time.

  ‘JOKE,’ he assures her.

  Natalie touches his cheek and adores him. She turns to Rosie, ‘Thank you Miss Kitto.’

  ‘Rosie, please.’

  ‘Rosie, thank you.’

  ‘No problem. I’ll have a wander and be back in an hour or so. I know you’ve got your flight.’

  They both nod at each other, two women complicit in the same endeavour, to keep these young men well-loved. Rosie leaves them to their mother and heads out into Bloomingdales to see what chocolate and shoe treasures it might contain. She won’t be disappointed.

  Knob

  That evening, the happiness that comes from seeing their mum is still swirling around the boys, even around Teddy who is too cool to let it show much. Being eighteen and being jolly don’t sit too well together. He’s happier in his customary morose mode, but even he can’t hide his cheer completely.

  Rosie whips up some quick pasta with a tomato and basil sauce for the boys to scoff before Kemble is due home to take them to the movies. Teddy knows that if the choice of film is down to the twins, he is in for an evening of earth-threatening superhero high action. Does he mind? Not at all. All boys like the chance to be junior whenever possible, even Kemble, even Granpops. The excited chat around the kitchen counter where Rosie is cooking is all about which film they might choose. Thomas and Glenn are out, and it’s Iva’s night off, so she is in her room in the back of the apartment, next to Rosie’s, catching up with her favourite Polish soap operas and talent shows on TV Polonia and using Skype to talk to her beloved daughter back home.

  Rosie is the first to realize that the minutes are ticking away and there is a worrying no show from Kemble. She brushes off the concern as pessimism and serves up Oreo-cookie ice-cream for pudding, in the hope that by the time the last delicious gulp is gone, Kemble will be through the door and rushing to go straight back out again with them. The boys are loud but it’s even louder inside Rosie’s head where the clock is ticking. Tick … Tock. Come on Kemble.

  Teddy is the next to wonder where his father is. Rosie shrugs her shoulders. Teddy picks up his phone and calls his dad’s number, which goes repeatedly straight to voicemail.

  ‘Shit,’ he whispers under his breath. He looks at the kitchen clock, it’s just gone seven thirty p.m. They have missed most of the earlier movie start times. Rosie knows what he is thinking. He is damning his dad to hell. The twins are thankfully oblivious of time, assuming rightly that someone else is doing that thinking for them.

  Rosie has an idea, ‘Hey guys, help me out with this, OK? Someone has been really annoying me recently, a man, a selfish thoughtless man, and I need to think of the appropriate swear words to call him when I next see him. Obviously I wouldn’t EVER dream of using any demeaning words that pertain to women or women’s bodies in my swearing so, avoid those at all costs, but almost anything about guys, their bits, poo, wee or anything else including f-words is fine. So, if we say the next five minutes is a total cussing amnesty, meaning you can say anything within those rules, what can I call him? Go!’

  The chaps look at each other, a bit uncertain how to process this instruction but, with encouragement, Teddy is the first to draw his curse sword, ‘Um, well I would call him … a dickhead … or maybe … a fucking douche?’ he says hesitantly.

  ‘Yeah, those are good, but what about if you got a little more creative? Like, say … moosecock?’

  The twins giggle. They love the fact that the gloves are off, that it’s somehow, inexplicably alright to be so naughtily vulgar in Granma’s house.

  As Teddy gets more juiced up, he offers ‘OK, assmonger, prickface, fucktard …’

  ‘Great. More,’ says Rosie.

  Three summons his courage, and enters the ring with ‘Dicknose’, which gets a round of applause.

  Red tries next, ‘Pissmonkey’, which gets whoops of approval. Then, it’s a free for all, with words tumbling out of them like a silage truck shute of pure filth.

  Red, ‘Fannycheese!’

  Rosie allows this, because she thankfully remembers fanny means bum here, and bumcheese is infinitely preferable.

  Three, ‘Dumbdick.’

  Teddy, ‘Fuckerhead.’

  Rosie gives it her best, ‘Oinking great arse knob.’

  Teddy follows verbose suit, ‘Tit-faced cock end.’

  The twins try more inventive words.

  ‘Turdbreath!’

  ‘Cockasaurus!’

  ‘Tithead!’

  ‘Nitshit!’

  Teddy tries to trump them with ‘Jizzbucket!’

  Rosie attempts something left field, ‘Republican!’

  They fall apart laughing at the randomness of that, but the pleasure of the rude stuff is too tempting, so they return to it for a final volley.

  Teddy, ‘Asswrangler!’

  Rosie, ‘Bumdonkey!’

  Then the twins collaborate to achieve the finale, ‘You … ratsuck … sweaty … fat … ass … balls!’

  ‘Yay!’ Rosie cries, and holds their hands aloft like prizefighters, ‘We have the champions, ladies and gentlemen!!’

  All of them are on their feet, stamping and clapping. And now, Rosie continues, ‘I declare the official end of the cussing competition, I have exactly what I need, so it has served its purpose. Just like the visit to the “Le Train Bleu” earlier today, I hereby consign both of these activities to a secret place where none, other than we select four, shall ever speak of them again. Understand?’

  They all agree and she spits on her hand for them to follow suit and shake on it.

  ‘Now, listen, I am guessing your dad’s been held up with something important,’ Rosie shoots Teddy a ‘don’t say anything else’ look, ‘so let’s head on out and find a movie, yes?!’

  She doesn’t give the twins time to stop and think about where Kemble is or why he isn’t there on time, she bustles them out of the door with Teddy’s help. Teddy, who is very, very angry with his dad. Again.

  Goodbye

  Inside the cavernous cathedral earlier that same day, the congregation for Bill Sharpe’s memorial seems insultingly tiny. There are a respectful couple of hundred people, but it still feels scant. That’s the problem when you’re important enough to warrant a service inside St Patrick’s cathedral, but old enough to mean that few of your peers have outlived you and are able to attend. What you might have imagined to be a grand, significant occasion when you are alive and planning ahead, turns out to pall into a nugatory, rather slight thing of a do. Not for the want of effort. For some of the congregants, it has taken a mighty effort to come, so old and feeble are they. Some of them don’t get dressed often, never mind dressed up, as they are today, in honour of their friend, colleague, husband, uncle and (for the two youngest people attending, who are themselves i
n their sixties) father, Bill. All are in their funeral garb. None have worn it for the first time. Some have worn these smart, suitably black threads too often for comfort. One of those is Thomas.

  He sits quietly next to some of his old chums, nervously awaiting his turn to read. He is without Glenn. As expected. Glenn doesn’t do memorials. He has been inside this cathedral on many occasions, happy and sad, and always he has been in awe of its towering splendour. Today, however, he is experiencing it differently. Yes it’s huge and majestic and hallowed, but it’s also cold and unfriendly and open to the public who mill about noisily, nosily, on the fringes of this very private service. It might have been better for them to be in one of the smaller side chapels, but the hubris, and the great grief of Sharpe’s widow Betty, denoted that the main aisle and big altar was the only right place. So here they sit in their drab blacks and greys, feeling puny. Thomas is aware that he is in an inevitable queue of helpless mortals, merely waiting his turn, there but for the Grace of God …

  Today is to celebrate Sharpe, his old college roommate, but like all things funereal, it reminds Thomas that he could be next, so he finds himself relieved at his reprieve and guilty for feeling so. Glad that Sharpe went first, that he has some more time himself. Then he looks around at the older ones, those in their nineties with the sallow cheeks, grey eyes, loose teeth and liver spots, and he wonders just what he’s glad for? And he looks up at the soaring ceiling and the intricate design of the huge vaults supported by the colossal stone columns, suddenly aware that they are obediently seated in the belly of an immense stone carcass, with the blanched raw ribs ascending and enclosing above them, a mighty, gigantic cage, to remind them of how small and insignificant and temporary they all are. The renegade Canute in Thomas longs to resist it all. Then, he hears his name, and it’s time for him to climb the spiral stairs into the pulpit to say his poem loud and clear, in memory of his late friend. He looks out at the almost dead, and begins.

  ‘Holy Sonnet Number Ten by John Donne.

  Death be not proud, though some have called thee