The Happiness Show

by Catherine Deveny

  Lizzie wound down the window and tried to breathe in some relief. She just wanted to shake this gastro and for the world to snap back to normal. She hadn’t eaten anything since Christmas Eve and she could tell Jim was a bit over it. And fair enough, too; he’d looked after the kids while she was away, coped with her being jetlagged and grumpy, and now she was down with gastro. He knew it wasn’t her fault but his resentment was starting to show. The offers of drinks and the ‘You-sit-down-I’ll-do-its’ weren’t as forthcoming, or as sincere. Which was something of a relief, really, because they only made Lizzie feel guiltier.

  Boxing Day came and Lizzie began to feel better. She held down a couple of pieces of Vegemite toast and a cup of sweet milky tea and it felt like a miracle. She told Jim to go back to bed and have a lie-in and found she had a burning desire to clean everything. She flicked on her pink rubber gloves, pulled on Jim’s painting overalls, got down on her hands and knees and scrubbed the place top to bottom. The kids followed her from room to room, happy to have her back.

  Jim rolled out of bed just after noon. ‘What’s all this?’

  ‘You know what they say,’ said Lizzie, taking off the gloves. ‘It’s not clean unless it’s Pine O Cleen.’

  ‘They also say the burgers are better at Hungry Jack’s. And anyway, since when do you give a shit if anything’s clean?’

  ‘I don’t, I just got possessed by the cleaning fairy. Put Scarlet to bed and you can get back to your book. I’m taking Reub over to Jules’s place.’

  ‘Shall I come over when Scar wakes up?’

  ‘Great idea. Call me and I’ll pick you up. And grab the ham. It’s in a pillow case on the bottom shelf of the fridge.’

  ‘Don’t worry about picking me up. If you take the ham now, I’ll ride over.’

  Lizzie grabbed Reuben and the ham and headed over to Jules’s house in Carlton. It was the first time she’d driven since she’d been away and it was great to be back behind the wheel. Back in her little space. As she turned the key, the stereo jolted back to life.

  It was Billy Bragg. And Tom came flooding back.

  *

  ‘Celia’s been downgraded from critical to serious, which is excellent. Felicity is fine. Beside herself, as you can imagine, but as well as can be expected. Yes, we’ll call as soon as we have any more news. Oh yes, will do. Thanks. And Merry Christmas to you too.’

  It was Christmas morning in London and Tom had lost count of how many people he’d called with the good news. They had been through three rounds of surgery, an infection scare and a suspected blood clot, but it looked like Celia would pull through.

  It was freezing cold out on the smokers’ porch and he huddled in a corner surrounded by old blokes with emphysema, young lads with tatts and pregnant women attached to drips, all of them smoking. This was the only place in the hospital for smokers and mobile phones, so it was cancer whichever way you looked. Given the extenuating circumstances, he’d taken to having a mid-morning and a mid-afternoon cigarette with his new friends.

  ‘Anuva durry, Mr Tom?’ offered young Jason.

  ‘No, thank you, Jason, life might just be worth living now. And I’ve got to get back upstairs. The doctors do their rounds at 10.30.’

  Tom ran to catch the elevator and hit the button for level four – intensive care. He was surrounded by people carrying flowers, Christmas gifts and helium balloons declaring ‘It’s a Boy!’ The little rubber band that had gripped his heart loosened a little.

  When he got off at the fourth floor, he knew that if there really was a God, Celia would be transferred out of ICU and into a normal ward today, Christmas Day, of all days. He didn’t believe in God but that didn’t stop Tom from blaming him, praying to him or doing deals with him in times like this.

  Celia’s bed was surrounded by a cluster of doctors and a nurse changing Celia’s IV. Felicity looked woeful; her skin was a bluish grey colour and there were big black rings under her eyes. She’d barely slept since the accident.

  ‘Mr Shorebrook,’ said Dr Johansson. We’ve been discussing your daughter’s recovery and we are all of the opinion that she should be transferred into a normal ward. If she continues at this rate, she should be downgraded to stable by tomorrow.’

  ‘What fabulous news,’ said Tom, shaking their hands. Looking over at Celia, he saw that she had begun to stir. ‘Thank you so much.’

  ‘Thank that daughter of yours. She did all the hard work. I’ll send an orderly up to move her downstairs.’

  The doctors moved to the next bed and Felicity grabbed Tom’s hand and smiled. ‘Merry Christmas, Tom.’

  ‘Merry Christmas, darling.’ He leant over and kissed her on the lips. They looked at each other and sighed a we made it sigh.

  ‘And Merry Christmas to you, Celia,’ said Tom, tweaking her nose.

  Celia smiled weakly. ‘Dad?’

  ‘Yes, angel, what is it?’

  She pointed to the end of the bed. ‘Are those presents for me?’

  ‘Yes, of course they are.’

  They helped Celia to open her presents – karaoke machine, books, Lady Gaga CD and mp3 player. ‘Cool,’ she said, and then she went back to sleep. Not unconsciousness, but sleep. Like normal people.

  ‘You go home, Flick,’ said Tom. ‘Take a cab and put your head down. You look like hell.’

  ‘I don’t think I can sleep,’ said Felicity. ‘Maybe I’ll go over to Becky and Keith’s and have some lunch. If the spirit moves me, I’ll have a kip upstairs.’

  ‘Good idea. I’ll call you if there’s any change.’

  ‘Thanks, Tom.’ She put her arms around him and gently wept with relief. ‘I thought we were going to lose her.’

  ‘Me too. Me too. But we didn’t.’

  ‘When Celia gets back on her feet, let’s go on a holiday to celebrate.’

  ‘Great idea. Now off with you or I’ll call the police.’

  Felicity went on her way. It was good to have some space. They wheeled Celia downstairs to a room looking out over the rooftops of Hampstead. Without the machines and drips of intensive care she looked almost normal again. Tom sat by her bed in a comfortable armchair and, halfway through the second chapter of Diary of a Wimpy Kid, he fell asleep.

  ‘Mr Shorebrook? Tom?’ He woke with a start and, finding a nurse leaning over him, looked anxiously at Celia. She was sleeping like a baby. ‘I don’t know whether you remember me?’ It was Helen, the nurse with the broad Australian accent.

  ‘Yes, of course. How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine. It looks like your daughter has pulled through.’

  ‘Yes, so far so good. Fingers crossed.’

  ‘She’s a little trouper. I came to see how you were all doing and to give you this.’

  Helen handed Tom his work satchel. ‘Remember you left it in the cab? I told you I’d track it down for you.’

  ‘That’s right. Thank you. Sorry – I’d completely forgotten. It all seems so long ago.’ He was so touched he thought he might burst into tears. He wanted to hug her. ‘Thank you so much. It’s very kind of you.’

  He unzipped the bag and he gasped. The blue batik scarf was gone but there was his camera, unscratched and in one piece. Had he known it was lost he would have been beside himself. But he’d been too consumed with Celia to think of anything else. He picked up the camera and focused on Helen, who struck a pose.

  ‘Wow,’ said the nurse, ‘a Leica. My dad had one of those. I’d know that shutter clunk anywhere.’

  ‘Not too many people know them these days.’

  ‘Are you a photographer?’

  ‘No. Well, kind of. An enthusiastic amateur.’

  ‘I hear they’re the most dangerous.’

  ‘Really, thank you so much. This camera has huge sentimental value. It was my grandfather’s. I’ve
taken it all around the world with me.’

  ‘I’ve got a leather jacket like that. It’d break my heart if anything happened to it. It’s the last remnant of my misspent youth. Anyway, all the best.’

  Helen held out her hand and Tom shook it, and with that she was off. Suddenly he wanted to ask her a thousand questions. Whereabouts in Australia was she from? How long had she lived in London? Was she married to an Englishman? Was she happy? Did she miss Australia? Did she know Lizzie?

  Tom sank back into his chair and felt oddly refreshed. He hadn’t slept long, maybe two hours, but it was the first peaceful sleep he’d had since, well, since he’d seen Lizzie. And then he remembered. About Lizzie, about his stolen car, about the El Husseins, about Harry and then about Lizzie again.

  He sat staring blankly at Celia and then picked up his camera and started focusing on things. He took a shot of Celia, a shot of her untouched lunch tray, a shot of the IV and then, just as he was focusing on the ceiling, he heard a familiar voice.

  ‘Merry Christmas, my son.’ It was Keith. ‘Thought I’d come in and check up on you.’

  Tom stood up and they hugged. ‘Thanks, mate. Appreciate it.’

  It was so good to see a new face.

  ‘Felicity lasted a glass of bubbly and a roast dinner and then she conked out upstairs.’

  ‘She hasn’t slept in days. It’s been like some sort of extreme sport. But the doctors think Celia’s going to pull through now.’

  Tom wanted to ask about Lizzie but there was no subtle way to bring her up. Then Keith, with uncharacteristic tenderness, picked up Celia’s hand, caressed it gently, rubbed it across his cheek and kissed it.

  ‘We’re so glad you’re here, beautiful girl,’ he said, choking back tears. ‘We thought we’d lost you for a minute there.’ It was odd; Keith had never seemed particularly interested in Celia. But it’s different after you have your own, Tom mused.

  Keith looked up at him. ‘Thank God my hair’s already fallen out – I’m not sure I’m ready for this sort of angst, and I’ve got two to worry about.’

  ‘Yes, one’s quite enough.’

  ‘You two won’t have any more?’

  ‘No, Celia is plenty. Particularly after this. Don’t want any more potential catastrophes out there.’

  ‘That’s not really how you see it, is it? One’s just a hobby, mate. A pet. It’s alright for you and Flick, you can just walk past each other and get knocked up. Me and Becky have to mortgage the house and book in with some wanker on Harley Street.’

  ‘True enough. Trying for a child is a concept we haven’t had to deal with. Trying not to have one, now that’s the challenge.’

  ‘Becky wants more. I wouldn’t mind another, but I’m not having any more twins. I did this show on families once, a doco. When I saw a mother of four breastfeeding one kid while picking up after three others, I vowed I’d never inflict four on any woman.’

  ‘It’s funny,’ Tom said. ‘These last few days, I realised how long it’s been since I picked her up. We’re all so busy, it’s easy to … lose perspective.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right. All that stuff they say about living in the moment might sound like a load of codswallop but it’s true. You could lose them in the blink of an eye. We get so caught up with work and everything.’

  ‘How is work?’ ventured Tom, fiddling with the camera.

  ‘Busy. Good. I’ve got some good stuff coming up. A bunch of celebrity chefs on a quiz show called Shaken Not Stirred. I came up with that name – you like it?’

  ‘It’s naff.’

  ‘An interview show with Britain’s worst Olympians. Plenty to choose from. And The Happiness Show, but that’s a bit later in the year.’

  Pause. Big Pause. Please say something about Lizzie, Tom thought. Anything. Just her name. But Keith didn’t.

  Tom knew Keith was quietly thrilled to get away from the house and the whole Christmas palaver. His father had been a violent bastard of a man. A womaniser and an alcoholic and Christmas brought back too many black memories. Tom didn’t like it that much either, if he was honest. People put so much energy and worry into a day that was supposed to be about celebrating and relaxing. But of course he turned up, put on the paper hat, read out the crap jokes and bought something for Felicity from a posh jeweller.

  Keith switched on the telly and they watched Miracle on 34th Street in silence.

  Tom went back to work the next week and Celia was released from hospital three weeks later. She was left with a limp and a very mild case of epilepsy. Considering what had happened, they felt very lucky.

  Harry had surfaced in Malta, of all places. He sent his wife and kids two hundred quid and a card for Christmas, promising he’d be in touch when he’d sorted himself out. He’d realised he could have been happier than he was, his note explained. No doubt his four-year-old, seven-year-old and eleven-year-old were comforted by that.

  Tom only knew all this through Felicity, who’d been keeping tabs on Jill, Harry’s wife. Jill was gutted but in the enviable position of being totally in the right. Harry had been crazy about her once. She was a cracking bird: fun, good looking, tolerant. They’d met at a Desperate and Dateless ball and it was love at first pint. The moment Harry saw her, he felt something move in his pants and knew he’d found the woman of his dreams. And they’d been dreaming together ever since – for fourteen years. That was until his 22-year-old secretary with the pert breasts, the short skirts and the fuck-me shoes became more than just a bit on the side. It wasn’t the first time and it wouldn’t be the last that a balding middle-aged man with tits and a hairy back confused lust with love. Nor was it the first time an emotionally malnourished girl had mistaken a mid-life crisis for a long-term relationship.

  Tom missed Harry, his dodgy jokes and his novelty ties. But there was something rewarding about being thrown into a less than perfect situation, a mess not of your own making, and managing it. There wasn’t too much to be done in the office after Christmas. A will here, a title there, some conveyancing bits and bobs and the odd trust to set up – nothing Tom couldn’t handle alone. He left home at eight and was back by six, sticking to the deal he’d struck with Felicity after Celia’s accident. He was exercising every night on his exercise bike and feeling the benefits of moderation. He hadn’t lost his gut but he was getting there.

  He was even getting time in the darkroom at least once a week, which was heaven. It was meditation, anger management and creative stimulation all in one. It was a miracle tonic for his constant mental static. He was working his way through old negatives he’d been meaning to develop for years, and it felt wonderful.

  The photos he’d taken of Celia on Christmas Day were very strong – profound, even. He gasped when he saw them lying in the fixer. They smacked you right in the chest. The weird thing was, he’d been so knackered when he took them. That was always when he shot his best stuff: unselfconscious and instinctive. Watching the prints appear, he felt as if he were a struggling photographer and forgot, just for a few moments, that he was actually a rich lawyer.

  As he held the rest of the roll up to the light, his heart skipped a beat when he realised he was looking at Lizzie. One perfect frame of glorious, untamed, blast-from-the-past Lizzie. As her face was conjured by the developer, Tom dissolved.

  As Celia’s tests became less frequent and her hair grew back and life returned to normal, Lizzie seemed to take up more and more space in Tom’s head. He thought stupid things like, I’d love to show Lizzie this article; I wonder what Lizzie thought of that book; I wish I could take Lizzie to this café, she’d love it.

  And of course, because Tom was only human, Lizzie also starred in the occasional vague-out on the train. He imagined rolling out of a smoky bar at midnight and dragging her into an alleyway, pulling up her skirt and fucking her senseless against a wall. When she came she would throw b
ack her head like the girls in the pornos. It was an unlikely fantasy for Tom to have. He had never had much luck with the knee trembler, doggy style, the starfish or anything really, other than missionary or girl-on-top. He wished he was a little more adventurous. He had a couple of pornos stashed in his filing cabinet under ‘INSTRUCTION MANUALS 1984–2000,’ but he hadn’t looked at them in ages. Lizzie made him want to again. It was the energy and the enthusiasm he craved, not the novelty. No, definitely not novelty. Lizzie Quealy was not novel. She was a long true story, familiar but brilliantly told.

  He remembered Lizzie once saying, when they were living in the bordello room, ‘We’re very meat and two veg sexually, aren’t we?’ He didn’t understand and she’d had to explain that it meant a basic – delicious, she stressed, and satisfying, but very regular – meal. But things were different now. If he had a moment with Lizzie Quealy there would be no stone left unturned. He’d inhale her and envelop her. And he’d never let her go. Not this time.

  They’d loved each other’s colloquialisms. ‘What do you want for dinner, sweetheart?’ ‘Just meat and two veg, hold the zucchini, thanks,’ he’d reply. ‘How was the film? A little bit country, a little bit meat and two veg.’ He also loved ‘chuck a spew,’ ‘rack off,’ ‘fair suck of the sav,’ ‘get your hand off it’ and ‘I’ve had a gutful.’ And the way she called sweets lollies and the corner shop a milk bar.

  Lizzie adored ‘Fancy a shag.’ Fancy an anything, really. ‘Fancy a spliff?’ ‘Fancy a pint?’ ‘Fancy a movie?’ She embraced ‘knackered’ and ‘gutted,’ ‘wicked’ and ‘can’t be arsed.’ ‘Barking mad’ and ‘barmy’ were up there, too. She loved the way he pronounced the words ‘vitamins,’ ‘privacy’ and ‘yoghurt.’