by Rhian Ivory
‘Let’s just leave it. Can we talk about something else, please?’ We cuddle up.
‘Oh my God, you haven’t heard the latest with Aisha and Niall, have you?’ she asks, knowing I haven’t. Thank God for Niall and Aisha, an endless source of safe soap-opera conversation.
‘On again or off again? Tell me everything!’ I prompt. We turn to face each other, smiling, because this is easier. Other people’s lives always are.
‘Did you have a good weekend?’ Pryia asks me on our morning break. I wonder if she really wants to know or if she’s doing that small talk thing adults do.
‘Actually it’s been the first decent weekend I’ve had in ages,’ I reply. She waits for more. ‘My best friend and I made up. We hadn’t really had a major argument but there was some stuff to work out, an atmosphere, almost worse than if we had just shouted at each other and got on with it,’ I babble on, not quite sure if I’m making sense.
‘I have those with Katie sometimes. I want to say how I really feel but I’ll pretend I’m tired or work’s a pain because the argument would make things worse.’
I nod slowly because she gets it. I’m surprised.
‘So what was the non-argument about?’ Pryia unwraps a cereal bar.
‘Everything really, but it’s my fault, not hers.’ I’m not sure what to tell her.
‘And now she’s off to drama college?’
‘Yes. Well, she’s got to get through the auditions first, but she’s an amazing actress,’ I add trying to sound convincing. Callie deserves her place but I can’t keep out of my voice the shameful notes of jealousy.
‘But not you? Your mum said you changed your plans? Owen and I were wondering why you’re interested in Singing Medicine. Well, I was, Owen couldn’t care less to be honest.’ Pryia smiles apologetically.
‘What did Mum tell you?’ I hate that people have been talking about me.
Mum has been filling me in on all the staff as we’re travelling to and from the hospital, so I know all about the secret superhero screenplay Pryia’s writing, and Owen’s cello lessons not going well despite his girlfriend’s help and Nikhil’s Pilates classes and his growing fan base, which now includes my mum.
‘Just that it didn’t work out in Dublin. It’ll work out somewhere, though, won’t it?’ she asks with the casual air of someone who’s already doing what they should be doing.
‘Not for me,’ I try to keep the self-pity out of my voice but fail. ‘I’m not going to drama college now.’
‘But you’ll think of something else,’ she starts but I can’t let her carry on.
‘What if I don’t though? What if I just drift from one thing to the next? Everything else is going to feel second best. I wanted to act, that’s the only thing I wanted to do,’ I admit as the panic crawls out of my mouth.
‘Things change. Might take you longer to find out what your new thing will be,’ she says simply. I’m so used to sympathy or commiserations, or people telling me not to give up, but she doesn’t do that. There’s not a drop of pity in her voice and I’m not sure how to react to it.
‘Oh.’
‘So, while you’re working all of that out, we’ll keep you busy here, but this time don’t leave me hanging.’ She prods my arm and I have no idea what she’s on about. ‘It’s not easy to do a round when one of you has forgotten to sing!’
I don’t have anything to say so I keep quiet.
‘When you’ve been on the wards with us a few days more, you’ll get to know all the songs we sing and then you won’t have an excuse.’ I wonder if she’s joking but when I look at her face it’s pretty clear she isn’t. She’s on to me, but I’ve got nothing for her: no words, no information, no real explanation. I just can’t sing. My voice has gone and I’ve no idea when it’ll come back, if it’ll come back. I follow her back out to the ward, to a sterile stage where there’s nowhere to escape, no lines or costume to hide behind and no make-up to transform me into someone else.
So I’ve been thinking, it might be fun to play a game.
Sure, let’s play the Shut Up game.
You go first.
*Dies laughing* I meant a guessing game.
Okay.
Steady there, hold back that enthusiasm now. I’ll go first, is your favourite colour black?
No, obviously. Up your game!
Pink?
Everyday sexism.
So that’s a no then?
It’s green, the colour of the Mediterranean Sea. I bet yours is black.
How did you know? You’re like Yoda. The force is strong with this one.
You were dressed head to toe in black on the ferry. And don’t go all Star Wars on me. I won’t get half the references because I’ve only seen The Force Awakens.
You need to go back to the start, I can’t believe your dad hasn’t given you a proper film education. What’s your man playing at?
I haven’t got a dad. And again, ever heard of Everyday Sexism? Maybe my mum is a Star Wars fan.
Shite. Sorry. I mean, about your da.
Thanks. And fyi my mum hates Star Wars.
So… what are you doing at work?
Emptying bedpans.
Jayziz, sounds like you’re right up Shit Street. All those germs. You can keep your piss and puke and pans.
Jokes. Lots of washing hands and cleaning gel. I smell like a doctor’s surgery, not a whiff of wee.
I’m glad my phone doesn’t have scratch and sniff ;)
I don’t think you’re supposed to insult someone you’re trying to play games with.
Are we playing games here? Is that what we’re doing? C’mere then so I can sniff you down the phone!
Any more talk of sniffing or scratching I’ll turn my phone off.
Alright, I’ll try and find me manners. God you’re stubborn.
I’m not stubborn. I just don’t respond well when people tell me what to do.
It’s as if you’ve a mind of your own. Next you’ll be telling me you’re one of those raging lady feminists.
WE DON’T RAGE! And we’re women not ladies.
Stop shouting Miss Caps Lock. I can hear you all the way from Dublin.
It’s Ms Caps Lock to you, Dublin.
You do know I don’t actually live in Dublin. I live on a farm. So really you should be calling me Clogherhead. Or y’know, Riley’s fine.
‘You’re always on that thing!’ Mum says, as she switches the windscreen wipers on again. The rain keeps stopping and starting – another classic British summer. ‘Put the radio on, love,’ she suggests. I stop texting Mr Clogherhead – whatever that means – and put my phone away. ‘How do you and Callie not run out of things to talk about? You’re always texting each other,’ she says longingly, as if she’s missing out on something. The Beatles are on the radio and she hums along, but I can tell she’s building to something.
‘What do you want to talk about then, Mum?’ I prompt. She shrugs her shoulders and I feel like the parent. ‘I heard you on the phone last night to Nonno, by the way.’ I wait.
‘You shouldn’t be eavesdropping…’ she starts, then stops and looks guilty, realising I’ve heard what she told him.
‘I wouldn’t need to eavesdrop if you ever talked to me.’
‘Don’t be so over the top,’ she says, eyes still firmly on the road ahead.
‘Why did you tell him that he can’t stay with us? He could stay in the spare room if we cleared it out. We need to go through Dad’s stuff anyway. It can’t sit in there forever.’ I’ve been wanting to suggest this for months. Nonno’s choir tour is the perfect excuse.
I hate the spare room. It used to be Dad’s music room but now I call it ‘the spare room’ as if it’s nothing to do with him anymore. It’s become a dumping ground for boxes full of him: boxes of papers, books, letters, sheet music and clothes that used to smell like him. It just smells of cardboard and silence now. I didn’t know silence could smell.
‘No,’ she says quietly, shaking her head. Her han
ds are clutching the steering wheel. Her wedding ring is too loose for her these days and she twiddles it round and round with her thumb. I wonder if she’ll ever take it off. ‘I can’t face him, yet. We’ve only just started talking again,’ she confesses.
‘But wouldn’t it help if he came to stay? Wouldn’t that make things better between you?’ I ask.
‘No. He’ll remind me of your dad and I can’t cope with that. Not yet. Hope, don’t push me on this. Nonno and I didn’t part well, some of the things I said… Maybe we could go out there next summer?’ she offers, but we both know we won’t. I don’t think she’ll ever go back to Italy, not even to visit Dad’s grave. I can’t believe I still haven’t seen Dad’s grave. It feels wrong.
‘But Nonno wants to come now, he’s already bought his ticket. He skyped me. He’ll only be staying with us a night or two at a time. His choir are performing across the country on this tour, not just Birmingham and Cardiff. I need to see him and not on a screen,’ I admit. I’ve missed him, it’s nearly been a year.
‘Oh,’ she replies, looking at me quickly. ‘Sorry.’
‘I don’t want you to be sorry, Mum. I want you to do something. Go somewhere, make a decision, come up with a plan.’ I wish I could take my own advice.
‘Can we talk about this over the weekend? It’s been a long week and I’d just like to get through this traffic, okay?’
Before I can answer, she switches radio channels to the news. A report about how five times more money is spent on studying the causes of erectile dysfunction than on PMS gets my attention straight away – clearly penises matter more than periods. I watch Mum to see if she’s listening. This might be a way into the other conversation we need to have, the one where I tell her what’s actually going on with me, but she’s totally tuned out. I open my mouth then close it again. This could have been a moment, the moment, but what chance do I stand when even a discussion about erections, or the lack of, doesn’t create an awkward mother-daughter moment? She’s so wrapped up in getting on and getting through that she can’t see what’s really going on.
‘Are you listening to this?’ I ask. She mumbles something about a road diversion. I give up. I guess it’s easier this way because if she can’t talk to me about her stuff then I don’t have to talk about mine. I don’t need to tell to her that my monthly calendar is divided up into some kind of Jekyll and Hyde before and after experience. That there’s something really wrong with me and it’s been getting worse every month. Even thinking this sentence in my head terrifies me.
No wonder I can’t say it out loud.
‘Bye!’ I shout up, timing my exit with her shower.
‘Wait! Hang on a sec!’ I hear her get out of the shower. I stand, house keys in my hand, trying not to look too impatient. She runs down the stairs, water dripping on the peeling wooden banisters. ‘Where are you going?’ She wraps the towel around her chest a bit tighter.
‘Into town with Callie.’
‘Hope, about last night, in the car. After you went to bed, I phoned your grandfather. I told him to come.’ She wraps her other towel around her head like a turban. When she stands back up, she looks different without her long hair to frame her face, more vulnerable, especially without her make-up. I drop my bag and keys on the floor and hug her tight and a squeal of excitement pops out of me. She laughs. ‘So, I’ll see you later. Maybe you and I could do something together tomorrow, if you’re not busy with Callie?’
‘Sure. We could take Scout for a river walk?’ I offer, knowing this is her favourite.
‘And have Sunday lunch at The Riverside?’ she adds as if this is an everyday moment but it’s not.
Callie lives two stops away so when I get on the bus I put my bag down on the seat next to me, saving it for her. The bus is always busy on a Saturday morning and I don’t want some stranger sitting next to me, especially not some man with his legs spread wide. I wish they made more single seats on buses.
Callie waves to me as she shows her bus pass. She throws herself into the seat next to me and sighs dramatically. I’m supposed to ask her what’s up but instead I just smile. I have some gossip of my own for once. She reads me like a book, forgets her news and prods me in the ribs.
‘What’s that smirky smile about, Hope Baldi?’ She waits, eyes sparkling. I instantly wish I hadn’t started this.
‘You have to swear not to tell anyone else. Swear it on our snow globes?’ I can’t stop myself, I want to hook her in, to tell her something so big and secret that she’ll look at me the way she looks at Aisha, Niall or the others when they share some juicy detail about their weekend. Callie knows every single thing about me; there’s nothing left that will make her gasp. At least she thinks she knows everything about me.
‘Our snow globes? Oh, I swear. I swear. Tell me!’ she squeals, forgetting about the rest of the bus and the volume of her voice. She pulls me in so close that I can almost taste her Japanese cherry-blossom perfume.
‘I met someone.’ I’m not sure how much I’m going to tell her. She switches her phone off. ‘He’s called Riley, he’s Irish and he’s been texting me. A lot.’
‘By the power of the snow globes!’ she shouts, then looks around the bus, embarrassed for a second. ‘Could he be THE ONE?’ she whispers. ’When did you meet him? And where?’ Her questions form a pushy queue, all demanding to be answered. ‘Is he a hot patootie?’
‘Um, yes. I mean, yes he’s hot and shut up about THE ONE!’ I cringe but cannot turn the corners of my mouth down.
‘Now, how hot are we talking here? On a scale of warm to damn hot where are we?’ She’s not even joking.
‘Don’t objectify the poor lad!’ I pretend to sound shocked.
‘Good point, there’s no room for double standards. Instead, tell the viewers, where did you meet and how come you’ve been so cloak and dagger about it?’ She curls her fist up like a microphone.
‘Well, Callie, thanks for asking. We met on the ferry, on the way back from an exotic trip to Dublin.’ I stick as closely to the truth as possible.
‘I see. And tell us, we’re all dying to know, is his accent as gorgeous as Niall’s?
‘It is indeed.’
‘Ah, Hope, you always get all the luck.’ She drops her fake microphone. I catch her words and hold them close and wonder if that’s really how she sees me.
‘Well, you were inside and I was outside and we got talking and he gave me his number,’ I continue casually, missing out the how and why we met on the ferry and skipping to the good bits that will keep her hanging on.
‘And then once he started talking to you that was that, I’m guessing?’ Callie nods in satisfaction, as if she can see the moment playing out in front of her. I don’t want to ruin it.
‘Si, signorina, as we both know I have the gift.’ I wink.
‘My, my, Hope Baldi, you’re back!’ She looks relieved and then impressed and I absolutely love this feeling. ‘Ah, how I’ve missed you! Let me count the ways.’ She hugs me dramatically as if we’ve been parted for months.
‘Shut up!I haven’t been anywhere.’ I pretend to misunderstand. I know what she’s on about; I’ve been missing in action for some time now. ‘Anyway, he’s really funny and flirty and messages me way too much.’
‘So, when do I get to meet him? I’ll need to make sure he’s good enough for my Hope.’ She closes her eyes and fake swoons back into her seat.
‘We haven’t talked about meeting up. Well, he has but I haven’t agreed to anything,’
She senses weakness – she knows me far too well.
‘Maybe you should ask him over here? Then it’ll be on your terms and your turf.’ She presses the bus’s stop button.
‘Maybe. Anyway, I know what I’m doing,’ I lie. I have absolutely no idea at all. ‘And it’s not as if Riley’s a stranger. We have met, remember?’ I try to look as confident as I sound.
‘Okay, but promise me you won’t do anything without telling me first?’ she bargains as she follows me
down the aisle. ‘Have you still got that app on your phone?’
I know the one she means – Stay Safe or something. Our mums made us put it on our phones when we first started going for auditions so that we’d always know where the other one was.
‘Yeah, yeah, mamma mia!’ I joke, stepping onto the busy pavement, dodging people and pushchairs. There’s no danger of Riley and me ever meeting up. It isn’t that kind of thing. I’ve just made it sound like that kind of thing to Callie. I’ve got no idea what THE ONE even means, let alone what he or she might look like. All I know for sure is that Riley couldn’t be further from THE ONE if he tried. So why did I let Callie think he might be?
‘Callie and the others are going to the theatre tonight,’ I mention as we pull out of the supermarket carpark after our weekly Wednesday shop. ‘I might go with them,’ I add in my ‘I can take it or leave it’ voice.
‘Lovely! What are you going to see?’ Mum asks.
‘Dunno. Can’t remember.’ Of course I can remember. I’ve been desperate to see Frantic Assembly’s production of The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time. Since Dublin, the theatre’s the last place I want to go but I’m not turning down another olive branch from Callie.
‘I’m out tonight too,’ she tells me, before indicating to turn into our road.
‘But you don’t go out on Wednesdays.’ I fail to keep the surprise out of my voice. ‘Today’s Wednesday,’ I add, in case she didn’t know. ‘It isn’t book-club night.’
‘Hope, you’ve a memory like a sieve. I’m starting my evening class tonight. I did tell you last week.’ She reverses into a space as close to our house as she can get. I wait for her to switch the ignition off.
‘Err, no, you didn’t actually, Mum,’ I reply, searching my memory banks. I’d have remembered this because this is new and Mum doesn’t do new.
‘Well, I did,’ she says, letting out a massive sigh. ‘Do you know, sometimes you look at me as if you don’t even know who I am, let alone listen to what I’ve said,’ she says it gently as if it’s a joke. But neither of us are laughing. She opens her car door too quickly, slamming it shut before I’ve even taken my seat belt off. She opens the boot, dragging out the food. I reach in to help her but there’s only one bag left. It’s taken her a while to get used to shopping for two instead of three. The local foodbank did well out of us for a bit.