Nobody Loves a Ginger Baby

by Laura Marney

  Bertha’s sister and her friends who have kids can’t afford interesting holidays. They go to camps in Skegness or take cottages in the Highlands. When they pull out pictures of the fruit of their loins, Bertha counters with photos of Machu Picchu or hot geysers in Iceland.

  But the banks of the Nile aren’t all that. The mud-brick houses are quite biblical and picturesque, she supposes, but the kids playing football spoil the overall effect by wearing Nike. The heat is like a giant hairdryer on full power. Day one, Bertha is overwhelmed by the bad smells; the rotting vegetation and petrol smells of the river, the embarrassingly obvious rank smell within fifteen yards of every toilet on board, the stomach-churning rancid stench from the kitchen area even when they’re not cooking, but worst of all is the smell of the staff. Bertha and Donnie agree, without being racists about it, that Egyptians stink. They have no appetite and can only nibble at pre-packed crisps and biscuits.

  Their cabin is not the best. Because she is paying for them both she has economised by taking second class. A frequent business flyer with all the perks, Bertha is unused to compromising quality. For Donnie’s sake she’s slumming it but rather than appreciate her gesture, Donnie is too busy being scared.

  He’s scared of everything. Donnie’s fear of flying, with sweats and swearing and apoplexy at take-off and landing, makes the flight a nightmare but that is to be expected. She thought he might be a bit more relaxed on the coach but as they are finding their seats he yanks her down. She tries to remove his hand, it is a designer top and he is knocking it out of shape but he holds fast, gritting his teeth and staring ahead. Such is his terror that he can only communicate with nods. Bertha thinks this is getting out of hand and is about to remind him that they have left the plane now, they’re only on a bus for God’s sake when, following his manic stare, she glimpses what has so terrified him. Their tour guide, a plump young Egyptian woman, is packing a pistol. As she reaches into the overhead luggage rack her holster becomes momentarily visible.

  Donnie will only converse in a whisper with his head between his knees. The woman is a suicide bomber. She and the driver plan to drive the bus at full speed into a target. What target? Donnie doesn’t know for sure, some American interest, maybe an oil company depot or something. He begs Bertha not to think of any have-a-go-heroics, he weeps silently, tears channelling into the rigidly set folds of his mouth. He says he is crying because he can’t remember the line after ‘hallowed be his name’ in the Lord’s Prayer. Every time the driver changes gear Donnie moans through gritted teeth, ‘This is it.’

  Later, once they have found their tiny sweltering cabin, Bertha seriously wonders if she can ever have sex with Donnie again. The flying phobia she can just about handle; lots of men are afraid of flying, but that palaver on the bus, well. Obviously she feels sorry for him, who wouldn’t? The poor guy was in a terrible state, but that was the whole point. He had made her feel sorry for him. How can she fancy someone she pities? She can kid herself only so far. She knew when she took him back that he was a bit mental, he always had been, but that was not insurmountable. The fact that he had shown himself a pitiable coward was selfish and damned inconvenient.

  *

  Friday night.

  It isn’t true that Daphne doesn’t wash; she does, just not with the same frequency that she used to, that is to say, daily. But though her ablutions have taken on an infrequency that gives her clothes and her armpits a mushroomy honk, the lack of bathing quantity is made up for in quality. Sometimes the only place to be is the bath, a return to the warm watery womb.

  She places tea lights in whisky glasses all around the bathroom and pours bubble bath, which leaves the bottle in thick reluctant pulses, under the rushing hot tap. She carries the iPod player out into the hall and drags it as close to the bathroom door as the socket will allow. She puts on gentle piano music – Einaudi.

  She no longer listens to the radio, which is just a constant stream of smug gits who are in love or sad gits who have been chucked. When she plays Einaudi she thinks of …nothing. She lies back, up to her chin, not caring if her hair gets wet. The bubbles provide a safe haven, a cosy hiding place where no one, not even Daphne, can see her blubber body. She takes the time to wrap one foot in bubbles, layering bubbles on bubbles in time to the music as they sparkle in the candlelight until the bubble ball slides down her leg, fragrant and slippery.

  Clean skin means clean underwear and, what the hell, a clean jumper. One good thing about the sickie is that Daphne has dramatically cut down on laundry. With her new more relaxed system, one jumper, even with the odd soup slurp down the front, which nobody sees anyway, can last weeks before it needs washed.

  Dressed all in clean clothes Daphne feels a sense of occasion but there is none. She can’t even pop in and visit Pierce. He has unaccountably bolted. No word, no soup cancelling, no nothing. Daphne has had to eat spinach and coconut soup for the last three days to use it up. He’ll be back. He’s probably shacked up with some woman.

  Daphne is preparing for the three a.m. deli run, standing in the hallway buttoning her coat. She doesn’t need a coat in this weather but that’s what she’s comfortable with. She has a peek in the full-length mirror. Her face has filled out a bit recently giving her a softer more girly look and she still has not a bad pair of pins on her, not a bad pair at all, it’s just the bit in between her face and her legs that she’s not so keen on. Now then, she thinks, where’s my stick with which to beat the men off? Where did I leave that shitty stick?

  Just then a rowdy drunk knocks and bangs her door. Pierce. She knew he’d be back. She keeks through the spyhole but it isn’t Pierce.

  ‘Tam, are you okay?’

  Tam’s face breaks into a wide infectious smile as she opens the door.

  ‘Daphne!’

  Tam throws his arms open wide and pulls her towards him into a clumsy bear hug. Daphne has, in an instinctive protective gesture, brought her arms to her chest and now Tam in his exuberance locks his arms behind her back. She is trapped inside his enthusiastic embrace. His cold outdoor ear is touching her warm indoor one.

  ‘Oh Daphne, Daphne, lovely lovely Daphne’.

  ‘Tam, how many Es have you had?’

  ‘Two.’ Tam pulls away enough to let her see his unrepentant smile and then returns to the ear-on-ear clinch. He rocks from side to side and Daphne has no option but to rock with him. The rocking gains momentum until it has become a heavy swaying dance, a dance that neither of them know the steps to.

  ‘Is he here?’

  ‘Who, Pierce? No, I don’t know where he is.’

  ‘He missed our fucking gig, man.’

  Tam nods his head in a sad knowing way. Daphne takes this opportunity to break free. They are standing just inside her hallway and, sensing that this is going to be a long story, Daphne brings Tam into living room.

  ‘He’s the one who got us the gig and contacted the record companies. And then he doesn’t even bother his arse to turn up! I mean, the rest of the band didn’t want Pierce after he gave us the big speech about us all having to be a hundred and ten per cent committed, all that shite. The rest of them thought he was an arse but I stuck my neck out for him and anyway, we couldn’t find anyone else who would do it. But still and all, I stuck my neck out for him and he doesn’t even show up on the night.’

  ‘Aye, he’s a useless git,’ Daphne confirms. ‘You should know better than to rely on him, Tam.’

  ‘Man, it was a brilliant gig. We were on fire. My wee sister came with a big crowd of her pals from school and they were right into it. The A and R man stayed until half time.’

  ‘The what man?’

  ‘A and R: Artistes and Repertoire. From the record company, a talent scout.’

  ‘A record company scout was there?’

  ‘Yeah, he came over and asked who wrote the songs.’

  ‘It’s you, isn’t it?’

  ‘Too right it’s me, I’m making sure none of those shitheads get the credit, they’re m
y songs.’

  ‘What record company was it?’

  ‘I don’t know, I didn’t like to ask.’

  ‘Then how do you know he was a scout?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know for sure, but he looked like one. He had really trendy clothes, looked dead wanky and he had a London accent.’

  Daphne and Tam are now in the living room and Daphne, still with her coat on, locates the whisky bottle and two glasses. She plunks herself down on the couch and Tam follows. Daphne pours while Tam describes in detail each song that the band played and his sister’s pals’ fervent appreciation. By the time he has finished Daphne has drunk two large whiskies and is feeling warm and relaxed. She stopped listening about ten minutes ago. She is wondering where Pierce is.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be great if the record company want to sign us?’

  Daphne is nodding. Tam says something else and Daphne nods. A look of surprised delight comes over Tam’s face and he takes Daphne’s head in his hands and gently kisses her mouth.

  Daphne has always liked snogging; it is her favourite thing, but this snogging is confusing. It’s not that Tam is a bad kisser. In fact he is pretty good, his basic equipment is sound: above-average size of orifice, superior lip girth, sturdy teeth, no obvious presence of halitosis. Whisky on the breath is always a bonus. And his technique cannot be faulted. There is none of the jaw-grinding or teeth-clashing she remembers from her dating days. There is no weirdness like teeth licking or forceful sucking. Kisses remain within acceptable limits for saliva production and exchange. But still she is uncomfortable with it. It’s too much.

  Tam is ideal boyfriend material. Isn’t he? He has golden hair on his arms, on his head, in his genes. But he’s a few years too young and a few months too late. Whichever way she looks at it, the arithmetic won’t add up.

  *

  The first sign is when she doesn’t open her mouth properly for a kiss. She doesn’t entirely lock her teeth but they are closed enough to be her drawbridge, denying him access to the inner sanctum, and he is forced to slurp from the saliva moat around her lower gums. With an involuntary moan he opens his mouth wider but she has not followed, their lips are out of synch. Now he’s kissing chin instead of lips and it’s a bit embarrassing. It’s a bad sign. His suspicions are confirmed when, later that night, after he has pushed the twin beds of their small cabin together, Bertha ignores the signal.

  When they were married Donnie slept tucked into Bertha’s chunky back and when they got back together again it came naturally, her arse parked on his warm groin, his legs folded inside hers, his instep against the sole of her foot. More often than not Donnie will wiggle his toes tickling the underside of hers. Once or twice a week Bertha’s toes wiggle back, saying hello, pleased to meet y ou. That is the signal, when that happens they wordlessly turn to each other and fuck. If her toes don’t wiggle they don’t fuck. This is not something they have ever talked about.

  Bertha’s toes are still. She seems to have curled them in tight. Okay, thinks Donnie. The holiday might have got off to a rocky start but I’m determined to enjoy it, after all, Bertha paid good money for this. It’s our first night, on holiday, not working, sunshine, Egypt, Cleopatra, the Nile, Pharaohs, what better opportunity for a blow job can a man have? So he wiggles again.

  ‘It’s too hot!’ Bertha snarls as she throws his arm off.

  It is too hot.

  The next morning Donnie gets an upgrade to a room with air conditioning. It’s the least he can do. He feels a bit guilty about how much Bertha spent on this holiday. She always was a spendthrift, now that they’re together they could have used the money for something practical but, God love her, she was trying to please him. And he’s trying hard to please her but it’s not his fault he doesn’t like it here; she knows he can’t take the hot weather. It’s not as if she doesn’t get to go abroad, Bertha is always jetting off to exotic locations with her job but she says that’s work; it’s not the same without your partner. He didn’t sleep a wink all night in that sweatbox of a cabin. It was like being in that Steve McQueen movie. There’s no way he can spend another night in the cooler.

  ‘Oh Donnie, it’s fantastic!’ she says as they both stand beneath the wall-mounted air conditioning unit. She turns to face it, splays her legs and lifts her skirt letting the cooling air waft around her knickers. Yesterday, Bertha made the mistake of packing her sun cream in her big case and it was several hours before she had access to it. He had warned her to cover up and offered her his cream but she scoffed at it. Not surprisingly she ended up burnt. On the way from the airport to the cruiser she has caught the sun on her face and her shoulders giving her the appearance of a ruddy peasant. She has a red stripe of quite severe sunburn down the length of each leg.

  ‘Hang on, that’s it only at half-power. Wait till you see what this baby can do,’ says Donnie. ‘Hand me the remote control, see? Impressive, eh?’

  The machine, which was almost noiseless, moves up a couple of gears and now drones. The steward who demonstrated the controls told Donnie not to turn it beyond this point but he’s paid for it and he’s going to bloody well make full use of it. Within minutes the temperature has noticeably dropped. The cooler air rejuvenates them both, Bertha’s earlier mood of stoically enduring her sunburn and the heat has lifted and she seems much chirpier. This is more like it, thinks Donnie, he has to try hard to enjoy this cruise, it’s the only way she’s going to enjoy it. Now she is jiggling and dancing around the room. Donnie can’t help but notice that through her blouse, Bertha’s nipples are stiff.

  He paid for the room upgrade with his Visa card that he always takes on holiday for emergencies and has never, until now, used. He can’t believe how expensive it is, it’s going to take at least a year and half to pay off, but in this heat these bastards can charge what they like.

  ‘It’s pretty cool though, isn’t it, Bertha?’

  ‘It’s brilliant, it’s absolutely freezing.’

  *

  Donnie is not keen on the excursion but he goes anyway. If he’s honest, he doesn’t really like Egypt. He would rather go on holiday to the Highlands like he used to with Daphne. Apart from the odd outbreak of foot-and-mouth or E. coli, it was a much healthier place to be. Donnie is already sick of crisps and biscuits but there’s no way he’s going to eat anything in this Third World country. He’s seen too many guys from his football team go on backpacking holidays to Africa and the like and come home three stone lighter with a suppurating ulcer on their leg. These guys are out of the team for weeks. The first thing he’s going to do when he gets back, apart from watch the Rangers matches that he’s taped, is get a fish supper.

  As soon as they arrive at the pharaoh’s temple Donnie seeks the shade. The only reason he agreed to come was because it was to a temple, he thought they would be inside, out of the sun. But this pharaoh’s temple is just a bunch of ruins. To avoid the powerful sun he has to stand in the shade of a huge and quite dodgy-looking column. If the column has been standing here since the pharaohs then hopefully it’ll last a wee while longer and not fall on top of me, he tells himself, how unlucky would that be?

  Donnie’s luck has not been great on this holiday with the embarrassing bus incident and terrible heat in the cooler all night long and Bertha pushing him away. What else could go wrong? At least the cabin is sorted, and hopefully that should cure the Bertha problem, too. They are on holiday, they are supposed to be having sex, that’s what holidays are for, not schlepping round looking at piles of rubble.

  With Donnie’s Celtic skin he has to watch he doesn’t get burned. He carries a large bottle of factor sixty-five sun block and applies it often. This gives him a ghostly blue-white colour. He is the only person here, maybe the only person in this country, who is blue-white and it makes him feel weird, lonely. He is an alien in this environment. He knows the Egyptians are laughing at him; he sees the shadow of a smirk on their weaselly faces when the stewards talk to him. Though he rubs and rubs the sun block is not absorbed an
d lies on his skin like a thick coating of lard. He longs for the sensation of dryness, for his face and hands not to be greasy and his groin not to be damp.

  He has noticed that he’s stopped noticing how smelly the crew are, and this is not good. When he first came on board he was overwhelmed by the smell of BO from all of them. Now he has stopped noticing it, does that mean he smells as bad as they do? He showered four times yesterday but even then the feeling of freshness only lasted a few minutes until he began to sweat and had to reapply the grease again. But being greasy is better than being burnt. He can’t understand why Bertha goes on deck to sun herself, her skin already looks wrinkled, does she not realise the damage she’s doing? But it would be stupid to tell her this, she’s already pissed off with him because he won’t come and look at the hieroglyphics.

  While Donnie lurks in the shadows he suddenly feels a sharp pain in his nether regions. Something has crawled up his shorts. Halfway between his arsehole and his cock something has bitten him. In horror he puts his hand in his pocket and shakes as hard as he can, trying to dislodge it. Nothing drops out, whatever it is it is hanging on. Panic is mounting, it’s a snake, no maybe a beetle, fuck, no, it’s probably a scorpion. Nearby, the guide is marshalling people to return to the boat but Donnie can’t think of that right now. He thrusts his hand down the back of his shorts and scoops between his buttocks opening his legs as wide as possible. He is about to grasp the invader when his nerve goes. He could be attacked again. One bite or sting might be survivable; two might not. But he has to get it out of his pants.

  In blind panic he looks around for toilets or even a dark doorway but there’s nothing. The best he can do is go round the other side of the pillar into the deep shade and hope no one sees him. As quickly as he can he pulls the shorts down.