Hope

by Rhian Ivory

  ‘What things do you want to know?’ I know there’ll be something particular that he wants to talk about, he’s that kind of man. I’ve always liked that about him.

  ‘What did you last see at the theatre?’ His eyes shine in anticipation. I inherited my love of the theatre and music from Nonno. The summer I turned ten we went on holiday to Tintagel together, the five of us. As we walked along the clifftops to the castle we came across a coachload of Italians heading down to Merlin’s Cave. Nonno led them down the cliff on to the sand.

  ‘What is he doing, stupid man! He kill himself!’ Nonna declared, with her hands over her heart as if it was beating too hard.

  When he got to the bottom, he gathered the Italian tourists around him in a circle, and all at the same time they burst into song, Nonno leading them. The acoustics of the cave and the cliffs were nature’s amphitheatre and the sound was like nothing I’d ever heard. They sang in Italian, something from La Traviata, Dad said, the drinking song. People turned from the castle towards Merlin’s Cave. Tourists found somewhere to sit. No one moved until the last note had been sung and then applause came from everywhere, from up in the castle, on the cliff face and from down on the sand where families were collecting shells. All the Italians raised their hands and took a quick bow and that was it. Nonno shimmied up the steps like some mountain goat, took Nonna’s hand, kissed it and led her off into the castle.

  Nonno packs his pipe with tobacco, content for me to return to his question when I’m ready. He moves at a different pace from Mum. I can hear her chopping, running the tap, opening and closing the oven – the heat escaping through the crack in the door that won’t seal properly.

  ‘Top Girls by Caryl Churchill,’ I reply.

  ‘Ah, I hear of her. Tell me, how did they tell the tale? Set? Lighting? Was there music? An orchestra?’ he encourages. ‘When did you see it?’

  ‘Just before … Dublin. Callie and Aisha’s duologue is from Top Girls, so Mr Davis thought it’d be useful to see it.’ I find it hard to say the word ‘Dublin’.

  ‘And since Dublin? You see anything else? I hear Theatre Severn has a good schedule this year.’ He says the word Dublin carefully.

  ‘I went with Callie to see The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time,’ I tell him, glad I have something to say.

  ‘Ah yes, I read the book a long time ago now. Your Nonna teased me because she said it was for children. I told Renata “the greatest stories are those for children” and she clicked her tongue at me, pfff. Stories are stories, if there’s a tale to tell and someone to listen it doesn’t matter if they are an old man with grey hairs or a child with gaps where their teeth should be,’ he says, involving Nonna in as many sentences as he can. I noticed Mum avoided this; if she could not mention my dad’s name then she felt as if she was winning at life. I couldn’t tell her but to me it felt more like losing. It was the thing we didn’t talk about, the name we couldn’t say without one of us ending up in tears. But Nonno says Nonna’s name all the time – Renata – bringing her to life as if she is in the room with us now, clicking her tongue. I can’t ever imagine clicking my tongue at anyone with such affection and real impatience all bundled up in one sound. It’s too personal.

  ‘Tell me more,’ he invites. So I do, I tell him all about Frantic Assembly and describe the way they made Christopher walk up walls, using the grid formation and graph-paper set design. I tell him everything I saw as I sat on the outside, looking in.

  Nonno delays the big question until after our meal, waiting for Mum to go to bed so he can smoke his pipe in peace. Mum has already asked him not to smoke in the house. He’s opened the back door as a concession. Mum always went to bed early to read when Nonno and Nonna came to stay, unable to keep up with the rush of Italian. Once I reached a certain age – I think it was twelve – I was invited to join them while they sipped their grappa, a drink I never liked. It smells so deceptively delicious, like plums soaked in honey, but tastes like cough mixture, sour and sharp. Now Nonno and I sit together while he sips his grappa and smokes his pipe, and the elephant in the room grows and grows until I can almost hear it breathing and sense the swish of its trunk.

  ‘And so,’ Nonno invites.

  ‘I failed.’

  ‘Sì, this I know.’

  ‘So, I need a plan B,’ I carry on, almost relieved to be saying it, to be accepting it.

  ‘No, no need,’ he replies, puffing and blowing.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I sit forwards on my chair, ready to listen. I feel excited and relieved. Just by being here he’s making things happen.

  ‘I say no. You do not need Plan B. You have Plan A and so you stick to it,’ he says in short bursts, sitting back in his chair.

  ‘But, I can’t,’ I protest. ‘I didn’t get in.’

  ‘Sì, sì, yes, but you try again, piccolina, you don’t just stop.’ He sips his grappa.

  As much as I love him, he really annoys me sometimes. He’s been in the house for a few hours and already he knows everything?

  ‘We try and try again. This is what they say, sì? It is in your blood.’ As if all I need to get into drama college is a blood test. If only – I’d gladly pay in blood.

  ‘But I’m not good enough. I would have got in if I was.’ I try to mirror his voice, the soft tones of knowledge and certainty, but it doesn’t quite happen for me.

  ‘You are more than good enough. I have seen and heard you, I have watched you grow. There are other doors to try if you are brave enough, sì? I know you can do this, piccolina.’

  He nods his head in satisfaction. And I want to believe him. But how can I? I can’t tell him what happened in the audition because I’m ashamed. He thinks I’m in control but I’m not. He’s watching me, trying to read my face, and I’m so tired of hiding from everyone.

  ‘Come here, come to me.’ He puts his pipe down carefully on the table and holds out his arms. I walk over to him. He pulls me down onto his lap. I sit there like a giant doll, awkward and gangly, until he kisses me on the head so tenderly. He starts singing and at first I want to run away. I’m embarrassed, but he isn’t, not for a second. And I can’t break out of his hold, not without hurting him. He keeps on singing. I’ve no idea what about because it is in Italian, I can just about follow a conversation but singing what sounds like some old folk song in Italian is way out of my league. After a few minutes of holding my neck at an awkward angle, I find it easier to rest my head on his shoulder. He relaxes his arm a little and slows down his singing until it matches the steady rhythm of his heart and to that sound – the steadiest of sounds – I fall asleep.

  ‘We’ve had a request from the nurses to see Kofi. He’s asked for you,’ Pryia tells me as we put our bags in our lockers.

  ‘Me?’ He doesn’t even know my name.

  ‘Yup, he must have heard the word on Hospital Street about that voice!’ she tells me, smiling. She waits as if I’m supposed to say something in response. People always do. I’ve no idea what they expect me to say. As if I can say: ‘Oh yeah, my voice is out of this world, isn’t it?’ Mostly I say nothing, which can come across as rude.

  When we get to Kofi’s room we go through the motions, scrubbing up, putting our aprons and masks on. We elbow our way into the room and stop as our eyes register the same thing at the same time. Kofi isn’t in his bed. His mum isn’t there either. The room is empty.

  ‘What?’ Owen’s voice is muffled by his mask. He checks his chart.

  ‘Maybe he’s seeing a consultant? Or he’s gone to another ward?’ Pryia suggests, but there’s a catch in her voice, a nerve triggered as she looks at the empty bed.

  ‘Well, let’s go and find out,’ Owen says, pulling his mask off.

  ‘Hope, you wait here. We’ll be back in a minute,’ Pryia tells me. I sit down on the chair and get out my cleaning gel.

  I think about what an empty bed in a hospital means to me.

  I’ve squeezed out too much gel, the alcohol or something acidic makes my
eyes water.

  I think about Fatima’s empty bed and her successful organ donor.

  I blink my eyes clear.

  I look back at Kofi’s empty bed.

  The door opens and people come into the room.

  I think about my dad’s empty hospital bed.

  ‘Hope!’ I hear a voice call out. ‘What’s happened? Are you crying?’ He sounds less than impressed.

  ‘Here you go, honey.’ His mum passes me a tissue. I take my glasses off but don’t know where to put them. Someone takes them.

  ‘Thank you,’ I reply, drying my eyes. There’s black mascara all over the tissue.

  ‘You look like a panda!’ Kofi shouts happily and I laugh. Kofi’s mum hands me back my glasses.

  ‘Cheers, well, you look like a leopard,’ I retort as my eyes clear and I spy his animal print t-shirt.

  ‘I know, goals! So, what are you crying about?’ Kofi asks me.

  ‘Kofi! Manners, honey,’ his mum says.

  ‘I got cleaning gel in my eyes,’ I tell him. ‘Anyway, where’ve you been? Owen and Pryia have gone to look for you.’

  His mum gets up. ‘I’ll go and find them. Will you two be good?’

  ‘Sure,’ he tells her, looking happy at the prospect of being left alone with me, which is slightly unnerving. His mum waits a second or two more and I realise she’s waiting for me to say something. I’m the one who is being left in charge, not Kofi.

  ‘Oh, yeah, we’re good. Take your time.’ I try to present a relaxed and confident front.

  ‘Thank you, honey,’ she says to me. Once she’s left the room Kofi lets out a big sigh.

  ‘Got any sweets? I’m dying for a Big Mac; can you smuggle me one in?’

  ‘So, where were you?’ I ask him, ignoring his requests for sugar and burgers.

  ‘Oh, boring meeting with Mr Rasheed about boring stuff. Have you been to the Doctor Who Experience? It is awesome!’ he quickly changes the subject.

  ‘No, I mean, I haven’t been yet but I will do.’ I remember I’m not supposed to ask the patient questions.

  ‘I’m going to live in Cardiff when I grow up. It’s where it all happens. I’m going to be a Doctor Who cameraman! Have you got any Match Attax? Or Doctor Who cards to swap?’ He looks as if he is expecting me to whip some out of my back pocket.

  ‘Not right now, but I’ll bring some in next time. Which ones do you want to swap?’

  He points to a box on his bedside table, a school shoebox from a discount warehouse. I pass it to him. Inside are cards held together with hairbands tight enough to snap. He picks one set out and flicks through it, then selects ten or more cards.

  ‘These are my swaps. Next time, bring yours and we can play Top Trumps too. Important question alert – who’s your favourite Doctor?’

  ‘David Tennant?’ I pick the one doctor I know.

  ‘Oh, shame. I’m Team Matt Smith, he’s the fun one and the best. Top Doctor. Fact. Tennant is second, possibly tied with Ecclestone. We don’t talk about the other one.’ He looks disappointed with my response. I’m lucky I didn’t pick the other one, whoever he is, poor guy. Kofi puts his swaps back in the shoebox. I place it on the bedside table. I search for a new topic of conversation but haven’t spent much time with eleven-year-old boys, apart from Callie’s brother Ethan. I could ask him more stuff about Doctor Who but he’s clearly a hardcore fan and would catch me out in seconds.

  ‘So, are you going to sing to me then?’ Kofi asks.

  ‘Uh, well… it might be better to wait until Pryia and Owen get back. They’ve got all the instruments and know what they’re doing.’

  ‘Don’t you know what you’re doing?’ he asks bluntly. ‘I thought you were one of the adults. Please?’ he carries on in a small voice. ‘You can write something for me, can’t you?’

  ‘How about I sing you a song by someone else? Who’s your favourite?’

  ‘Tracy Chapman. Do you know her?’

  I nod, I know her, but I’m surprised he does.

  ‘Do you really?’ His eyes sparkle. I nod again. ‘My mum plays her songs all the time. It sounds like being in our flat when I hear her voice. Can you sing “Revolution”?’ he asks, his eyes drooping a little. ‘That’s her best one,’ he adds, as Pryia enters the room. I clear my throat and hum the introduction and then I start singing to Kofi.

  Hey, Dublin! Where are you? Sorry for swearing at you.

  Is this how we’re going to communicate with one another now Ms Caps Lock? Cursing and cussing like dockers? I didn’t know girls knew language like that.

  Well, this girl swears, so deal with it.

  And you kiss your mother with that potty mouth?

  Shut up about potties, you’re not American. Anyway, I’ve got something to tell you.

  Howdy partner, now we’re talking. Hope it’s juicy. *Hope* See what I did there?

  I just sang!

  WTF? Talk sense woman.

  Now who’s swearing! I sang to Kofi, a kid on the burns unit.

  Right, and this is breaking news why?

  And I sang to Nico.

  Hold the front page. I’ll text Sky News. This could go viral.

  Whatever, I knew you wouldn’t get it. It’s just I haven’t been able to do it in a while.

  C’mere, I haven’t been able to do IT in a while either. Not many people to do IT with, out here in the sticks.

  Think we’re talking about different ITs.

  Ah, now that’s a terrible shame.

  You have no shame!

  Yeah, yeah. Heard that one before.

  Gripping as this is, let’s change the subject. What are you up to?

  Selling my bike. Going travelling. Going to Finneas Fog it round the world. Might take a wee while longer than 80 days though.

  Didn’t know you had a bike and google how to spell Phileas Fogg. And Nellie Bly managed it in 72 DAYS! Not 80 but 72! So, you know, do your best yeah?

  Sass, Ms Caps Lock! There’s lots you don’t know about me. I’m an international man of mystery. And who’s this Bly woman?

  Really? International? Bet you’ve never even been abroad. Again, google her. We studied her in history. She was a journalist dealing with facts and real travel not fiction.

  My travels aren’t fictional!

  So where have your so-called travels taken you then?

  I’ve been all the way over the sea to sunny Wales. It’s another country right? I definitely needed Google translate, couldn’t understand a word. Remember me now, your hero on the ferry?

  Tropical Wales. Now I can see why you’d refer to yourself as mysterious. And there was nothing heroic about you. Not that I needed a hero.

  Way harsh, Hope.

  So, where are you going to go then, when you go on your big trip?

  Somewhere far away from here that’s for sure. Maybe Canada.

  Original.

  Give me a break? I could have said New Zealand.

  Or Australia. Have you actually booked any tickets then? Or, you know, actually got a passport?

  Actually yeah I have. Actually.

  Alright, so I repeated a word. What are you, the grammar police? So, are you scared of travelling or is it leaving your dad?

  Am I shite. Course not. You’re talking out of your arse now.

  We’re back to arses are we? And calm down, I was only joking.

  Oh. Right. Awkward. Me da’ll be fine once he finds someone else to milk the girls.

  I haven’t been to Italy for about a year and my mum is getting freaked out talking about all the things that could happen to two females travelling alone.

  I could come too. International man of mystery ready and more than willing to protect travelling females.

  We don’t need a man to travel with us. I have an app.

  An app, we’ve been replaced with apps? Not this feminist shite again.

  It isn’t shite. Go and google Gloria Steinem. Or start reading Teen Vogue. It isn’t too late to educate yourself you know.
r />   What is it with you and Google? Are you on commission? C’mere and tell me more about this Gloria one. Is she a ride?

  You can’t view women in that way, you’ll get hurt.

  Now, is this some kind of secret code you feminists have come up with? Like in the yard at school when you pretend to hate someone and pull their hair but really you just want to get it on?

  If there’s a secret code you’ll never crack it because you’d need a brain for that.

  Wounded!

  ‘Hope? Did you read that leaflet I gave you?’ Pryia interrupts me, speaking quietly so that only I can hear her.

  ‘No, sorry. I lost it,’ I lie, switching my phone off as Pryia reaches into her bag and pulls out another leaflet. What is it with her and leaflets?

  ‘Here’s another one.’ I fold it away but she’s still looking at me.

  ‘What’s this all about?’

  ‘Just read it,’ she says, talking over me. ‘It’s about PMDD.’ She knows I haven’t read the leaflet she gave me outside Joe’s. I swear she must have spies.

  ‘Oh, right. What, you want me to read it now? In here?’ That’d be ridiculous, someone might see.

  ‘Yes, now! You’re not leaving my sight until you’ve read every single word,’ she replies.

  I sigh and unfold it and begin. She doesn’t speak or move, just sits on the chair next to me and waits. I read it as quickly as I can but there are bits I can’t skim or whizz over. Some words jump on the page and look as if they’ve been printed with caps lock on. Parts of the leaflet have OI!HOPE BALDI – LOOK HERE in bold with arrows pointing to words like

  >feeling overwhelmed and out of control ?> 

  or

  >Irritable?<

  Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder sounds really serious. I don’t want to have a disorder, let alone a dysphoric one – whatever that means. I skim over the fun list of Top Ten Symptoms: