by Rhian Ivory
‘What’s the class on?’
‘What?’ she asks over her shoulder as she unlocks the front door.
‘What evening class are you taking?’
She puts the bags up on the kitchen counter and switches on the kettle. She raises a cup to ask if I want one too. I nod then shake my head and she looks surprised.
‘I’m trying to cut down on caffeine. I read somewhere it stops you sleeping,’ I mumble.
‘Are you still having difficulty getting to sleep? Maybe we should make an appointment with the GP. If I can get past the bloody receptionist that is. Do you know you have to ask her to make an appointment for a doctor to phone you? Then when the doctor phones you they decide if you need an appointment. Then if you’re lucky you have to sit in the surgery for hours on end. The whole system’s ridiculous!’ She’s on the verge of a full-on NHS rant.
‘Anyway… back to you and your exciting evening class?’
‘Languages! Thought it was about time I did something for me.’
For some reason it hurts, as if all the things she does are just for me rather than us. Like I’m the thing that’s stopping her from going to some evening class, from getting a life, from moving on.
‘Which language?’ I ask because she’s being so shady about it.
‘Italian,’ she says, her head in the fridge.
‘Italian?’
‘Yes. Why the face and tone?’
‘Because you never wanted to learn it before…’ I want to say, ‘What’s the point of learning it now? Isn’t it a bit late for that?’
‘I’m going up to have a bath and a read – that Dark Wood book is getting really good. They’re about to play hen-night party games and I have a feeling it is about to go horribly wrong,’ she says as if some made-up story is what’s important here.
‘But…’ I start but she talks at the same time.
‘That’s enough, Hope!’ she snaps. She’s lost her control, it’s gone for a split second and we both see it. She rescues things by launching into Mum Mode. ‘Have a good time at the theatre and take your key because I’m not sure what time I’ll be back.’
A good time? Has she really no idea how much it will kill me to walk into the theatre and sit on the wrong side of the stage? It’s like she doesn’t even know who I am.
‘Do you want me to drop you off or are you getting the bus? Have you got enough money? There’s some in my purse if you need more.’ She never offers me more money, mostly because there isn’t any. She must really want to get rid of me.
‘Bus,’ I start, but my phone beeps and she takes this as her opportunity to go.
‘Give me a shout when you’re leaving, okay?’
If this is Riley texting again he has a lousy sense of timing. But it isn’t, it’s Callie.
Meet outside at 7:30. Am in town with Aisha & others. See you later x
I spot Callie as soon as I step down off the bus. She’s standing outside the theatre surrounded by most of our theatre studies group. This is going to be deeply weird. I haven’t seen any of them since the exams and there wasn’t exactly much chance to talk then. Callie sees me and waves two tickets. She envelops me in a massive hug and a cloud of cherry perfume and she feels like home. My phone buzzes.
‘Is that him again? THE ONE? The Irish rover?’ Callie asks with a huge grin on her face and I can feel myself mirroring her.
‘What’s an Irish rover? Are you getting a puppy, Hope?’ Niall asks.
Callie cracks up with laughter.
So she hasn’t told Aisha or Niall. She’s kept her word.
‘So who’s this THE ONE then? Is that why you’ve been ignoring all my calls? There was me thinking I’d done something wrong.’ Aisha nudges me. I can hear the soreness in her voice and I want to deny it. ‘I told you, Niall!’ she declares triumphantly. ‘Wasn’t anything to do with acting. It was about a boy, wasn’t it, Hope?’ She winks at me, like we’re part of some special club.
I want to tell her no, this has nothing to do with some boy, but I can’t. We’re back, me and Callie are back to US, so I grin back sheepishly and answer them all ‘Yes!’
When I get home the house is in darkness. I find a note on the kitchen table. Mum’s writing looks blurry although that could be the vodka and cokes Niall bought me in The Boathouse. He’s the only one who always gets served without question, especially if we go there during Aidan’s shift. Aidan has a bit of a thing for Niall which Niall plays beautifully, despite the face on Aisha.
Don’t wait up.
Hope you had a good time.
Mx
I don’t know where she is. I call her mobile but it goes straight to voicemail. I leave a message. I check my phone but she hasn’t texted me. I run to the calendar on the fridge. There’s nothing there for Wednesday night. I pace the kitchen, scrolling through my contacts wondering who to call. It’s really late.
I open the front door and run across the little bit of grass that divides our house from the Llewellyns’ next door and ring their doorbell. They don’t answer so I ring it again and again and again until I see lights going on. I hear the key in the door and the latch.
‘Hope?’ It’s Mr Llewellyn, tying his dressing gown round his waist. ‘Is everything okay?’
‘No. I mean, sorry to bother you, but is my mum in there?’ I point past him into his house and hear how stupid my question sounds. He looks even more worried now.
Mrs Llewellyn pushes him to one side. ‘No, Erin’s not here, Hope. What’s wrong? What’s going on?’
‘I don’t know where she is!’ I wail. Mrs Llewellyn pulls me into their hallway as Mr Llewellyn gets the phone. He’s calling someone, I don’t know who.
Mum never does stuff like this. She doesn’t really go out and she always tells me where she’s going. I’m finding it difficult to breathe. I want to run out of their house, when I hear a car pull up outside. Mr Llewellyn walks out. I hear voices and laughter which switches quickly to something else.
I can hear Mum’s voice. Mum calls out bye to someone, presumably whoever has just dropped her off and then walks up to the Llewellyns. I can see her face in the glow of the street lights. She grabs my hand, thanks the Llewellyns, who look confused, and marches me back home. She drops my hand to unlock the front door. I stand there in the dark, as she takes off her heels, puts her bag on the floor and her keys in the pot.
‘Get in!’ she shouts, making me jump. I almost run inside. She closes the front door behind me, taking great care not to slam it. She locks it and turns to face me.
‘Hope, what the hell are you playing at?’ She bangs her hand against the switch, flooding the hallway with light, with a violence which hurts my head. She has a lot of make-up on – liquid eyeliner making her eyes even darker. And she smells of cinnamon, a different perfume from the one she used to wear, spicier. She’s got a floaty dress on, long dangly silver earrings, bracelets and a necklace. I can’t think of the last time I saw her like this, dressed up, made up, wearing going-out clothes. She looks beautiful, but tired beautiful and I want to say something nice to her, but she’s frightened me.
‘Where’ve you been? It’s so late,’ I accuse. ‘I got home and you weren’t here and then you didn’t answer your phone and I started to worry.’
She walks past me into the kitchen. I watch her fill the kettle.
‘I said, where have you been?’
‘I told you where I was going: Italian lessons at college…’ She stops fiddling with the teabags and stares at me, looking worried.
And I remember. She did tell me. We talked about it, before I went out. How could I have forgotten?
‘Yes, obviously. I meant where have you been since then, since your Italian class?’ I try to say it as if I’ve known all this time exactly where she was.
As if I’ve known all this time that she was safe and well and not dead behind the wheel of her car or squashed by a bus or lying on the stage in a concert hall because her heart has stopped dead in its tracks.
‘We went out for drinks, after the class,’ she starts so simply, it must be true. She’s fine. She’s absolutely fine and hasn’t been in any danger at all.
She passes me a mug of tea which I don’t want. I take a reluctant sip. I want to take it up to bed with me and just crawl in under the covers and hide. But I can’t. I have to act normal.
‘…but I wasn’t expecting to come home to that! You look tired. I don’t think you’re even listening to what I just said,’ she says and I wonder what she asked me. I draw a complete blank and decide to turn the spotlight back on her for safety.
‘Why didn’t you answer your phone?’ I challenge.
‘I doubt I could hear it in the pub, sorry!’ she says, as if it’s nothing to her. ‘What were you ringing me for anyway? Shouldn’t I be the one waiting up for you?’ she jokes.
‘Am I going to get to meet any of these new student friends of yours?’ I change the subject.
‘Ah, Hope, it isn’t what you think. Is that what this is all about?’ She sits down at the table next to me and blows too hard on her hot tea. It bubbles up. ‘I can’t believe you bothered the Llewellyns with this. We’ll have to say sorry in the morning. Maybe you should take them some flowers or a bottle of wine.’ She looks in the wine rack to see if there’s anything decent there.
‘Why are you suddenly taking Italian lessons?’
‘Nonno. He’s insisting that we go and visit them – him and your Aunt Gianna – in Italy for Christmas. I don’t know the language and I don’t want to get lost with you in the hire car and end up being mugged or worse at the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. I have to take care of us now, so the least I can do is speak the bloody language! I have to be able to look after you properly and I can’t do that if I can’t speak Italian. I have to be able to protect you, it’s all up to me!’ she shouts.
I jump out of my chair and put my arms around her as her sobs rip at my insides.
‘Please don’t cry, Mum. We don’t have to road trip it like Dad always did. We can just fly. And I’ve got an app on my phone that can translate everything for us, it’s easy. I’ll download it to your phone too, then you can get used to it. We can do all this kind of stuff together, together.’ I hadn’t realised she felt like this, so on her own.
‘We need a break, don’t we? Actually, I’m not too bad at Italian. I never bothered really when your dad was here. But he’s not here, is he?’ She takes a massive gulp of her tea to stop herself from either crying or saying any more. I’m not sure which. Her mascara has run. She looks like the end of a long night, tired out and a bit smudged.
‘So, we’re definitely going to Italy. You and me, yes?’ I whisper.
‘Yes, it’s done now. We’re going,’ she sounds terrified and relieved. ‘Now, do you want something to eat?’ she asks, moving neatly back into Mum mode. ‘Or is that a daft question?’
When I climb into bed later – after we’ve had cheese and biscuits and listened to Dad’s Carol King and James Taylor album – I check my phone.
Are you awake? Whatcha doing?
Tell me funny things and entertain me. Got a hangover already and I haven’t even gone to sleep yet.
What’s all this talk of hangovers? Was drink taken? Was the craic mighty?
Drink taken where, outside? Talk properly. And what’s mighty craic? Do you mean crack?
Dear God, do you not know how to spell woman? Why don’t you use your old friend Google and find out what craic is.
Went to see a play then went to the pub. You?
Went straight to the pub. I’m locked.
Locked out?
Na, you know, like locked, drinks-wise. Don’t really feel like spending another day on the farm tomorrow with me head up a cow’s arse. Rather be out there, seeing the real world.
A cow’s arse? You can’t just chuck in a reference to a cow’s arse like that. Are you pissed?
C’mon now, I’ve told you we live on a farm, course I have, you’ve just not been paying attention.
You’re a disgusting chauvinistic pig!
Flatterer but I’m on a dairy farm not a pig farm. Now, have you got over yourself yet?
What do you mean?
The whole I want to be famous and go on the stage caper.
I never said I wanted to be famous. And I’ve already told you I went to the theatre tonight. It nearly killed me.
Cop on, woman, and stop with all the self-pity shite. Going to see a wee play isn’t going to kill you. Try out for another drama place.
You don’t try out, this is theatre not athletics. You audition.
Audition then. Chicken?
I never said I can’t do it!
Then what’s stopping you. I wouldn’t let anything get in my way, that’s 4 sure.
Really? When are you off on your travels then?
She shoots, she scores. Back of the net.
You started it.
Alright, truce? Now, there’s arses out there that need my attention come the morning. Yours isn’t too bad if I remember rightly although I could do with a wee picture, just to tide me over?
Not on your life and less chat about arses, thank you.
Text me tomorrow and I’ll tell you all about the dirty cow I spent the day with.
I can’t wait. I’ll be sitting by my phone all day awaiting your wit and Irish charm.
Challenge accepted. Fair warning mind, you won’t know whether to swoon or sext me once I unleash my charm offensive on you.
Yeah, offensive is about right. If you’re sexting tomorrow I’ll be blocking ;)
OH MY GOD SHE USED A SMILEY FACE! SHE HAS GONE EMOTICON CRAZY. Where will this madness lead? Next there’ll be LOLing and FMLing. Maybe you’re the pissed one?
Go and find your dirty cow, some of us have to be up for work in the morning.
C’mere, that’s not all that’s up in the morning.
Thought you said charm not smarm.
Noted. Night, Ms CAPS LOCK ;) ;) ;)
Night, Dublin.
‘How come they finally let you in through the door?’ Callie asks. I hesitate. We aren’t supposed to talk about patients outside of hospital. Mum has drummed this into me from the start, about respect and patient confidentiality, but I really need to talk to someone. ‘Hope!’ Callie waves her fingers in front of my face.
‘I don’t know. I guess Pryia thought I could handle it?’
‘She’s obviously seen what you’re made of,’ Callie nods.
‘When I got into the room there wasn’t anyone in the bed.’ I pause to sip my hot chocolate.
‘Where was the patient?’ Callie stirs the straw in her chai and banana milkshake. ‘Oh my God, were they dead? Is that why the bed was empty?’ She’s talking like this is a book or play instead of someone’s life and I don’t really like it. ‘I don’t think I could cope with dead people…’ She stops herself just in time. I don’t want this conversation to be about Dad.
‘No! The patient wasn’t dead! You’re such a drama queen.’
‘You’re the drama queen, spinning this story out like some scene from a play.’ She rolls her eyes.
‘Alright, so there was a chair with wheels and a bit of a desk or table attached to it and a boy was sat in it. I didn’t know it was a boy to start with, could have been a girl, but his mum said his name.’ I take care not to say his name.
‘And? What was his name? How old is he?’
I shake my head, sip my drink and play for time. She isn’t going to get this.
‘I can’t tell you his name. You don’t need to know anyway. He’s probably about Ethan’s age, eleven?’
‘You can totally tell me his name because I’m never going to meet him or his mum, am I? I swear on the snow globes.’
Our friendship is still at that fragile, brittle stage when we’ve made up but the walls could come tumbling down at any moment. I know she doesn’t like me having this other life, being part of another world that has nothing to do with her, bu
t I am not budging. I can’t, not even for Callie.
‘I need to talk to you about this, so stop going on and just listen,’ I tell her.
She looks surprised. She’d been expecting me to cave.
‘He was half stood, half sat on this strange chair, shaking. His body was bandaged, so there wasn’t much skin on show. I guess his burns are pretty bad.’ I close my eyes for a moment, picturing that first look at Kofi.
‘Hope, I don’t think I can hear any more. To be honest, it’s making me feel a bit sick,’ Callie flaps her hand to bat away the image I’ve conjured up. ‘Maybe Aisha would be better at this kind of thing?’ This is really upsetting her. I wonder if Kofi’s age is too close to Ethan’s and she’s worrying about all the things that could happen to her little brother. ‘Sparing me any graphic details, what happened to him?’
‘They don’t tell us. We’re there to sing with them and distract them and make them feel better, not ask them questions about their health.’
Callie shakes her head as if this is the last straw: she thinks I’m keeping things from her.
‘Poor boy. I don’t know how you stand it in there. Why don’t you come and work here with me? I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before, it’d be ace!’ Callie gestures to the coffee shop and the sign on the wall. I skim read it.
Staff Wanted, Come and Join The Bird’s Nest team. Must have experience in the industry. Come and get in touch, ask for Evie.
‘But I don’t have experience in the industry. I haven’t got experience in anything apart from babysitting for the Chaudris,’ I protest.
‘Hope Baldi, I’ve been working here every weekend since I turned fourteen, don’t you think I can get you in? Course I can! I don’t like the thought of you in that hospital with all that blood and germs. And those dead bodies.’ She looks frightened. Her break is going to run out in a few minutes and all I’ve done is freak her out.