Don't Get Me Wrong

by Marianne Kavanagh

  “Kim? This is Harry.”

  The world went dark. An eclipse.

  Eva said, “We’re going to buy ice cream. Do you want some?”

  I couldn’t speak. Half-asleep, dazed by heat, I couldn’t say a word.

  “No ice cream?” A deep voice. A posh boy voice.

  I looked up. But I couldn’t see his face—just shadow, like a cliff, against the glaring white light.

  “Are you always this talkative?”

  “Oh leave her, Harry. She just wants to enjoy the sunshine.”

  I put up my hand to shield my eyes. And now I could see his expression.

  “Harry?”

  Laughing at me. His whole face creased up, grinning from ear to ear, as if I was one huge joke.

  “Harry? Come on.”

  Then he moved, and the sun blinded me. I sat up, and the world was washed out, like someone had bleached it. I kept staring as they sauntered back to the house. He was a head taller than Eva but thin. Nothing but bones, as Christine would say.

  At the top of the concrete steps, he stopped. “So that’s your baby sister.”

  I waited, very still.

  “You know, she could look quite pretty if she smiled.”

  The hurt. The rage. You’d think the years would make a difference. But they don’t.

  He spent most weekends in our house when I was a teenager. Taking up space. There was no one to stop him. Dad had walked out. Mum was floating about in a cocktail dress and a cloud of Chanel, happy to spend the evening (the week, the weekend) with anyone who asked her. You wouldn’t know Mum had been born above a chip shop in Torquay. From her voice, you’d think she’d grown up in Kensington—in one of those grand white houses with black iron railings and nannies with prams like Cinderella coaches. Mum loved Harry. Like a young Montgomery Clift. You know, darling? All those films from the 1950s. She said he fitted so well with Eva—tall and dark against Eva’s blond fragility.

  That’s all that mattered to Mum. The way things looked.

  So Dad had gone, and Mum had gone, but Harry was always around. I’d walk into the living room to watch TV and there he was, lying on the sofa—head one end, feet the other, taking up all the seats. If he wasn’t on the sofa, he was upstairs in Eva’s room. I’d be sitting at the kitchen table, my GCSE maths book open in front of me, staring at the misshapen rectangles, and I’d hear them laughing, and then thumping sounds, like things falling down, or off, or over, and music all the time, the old 1960s stuff Eva liked—the Mamas and the Papas, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix. The Byrds, their voices twining in and out like textiles. Eva said one of their songs was written by King Solomon. It was in the Bible. To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven. (If something isn’t working, there’s no point jumping up and down, getting all stressed. That would be like banging your head against a brick wall.) A time to be born and a time to die. A time to weep and a time to laugh. A time to love, and a time to hate. A time of war and a time of peace.

  A time for calculating areas and perimeters.

  I drew a small mouse in pencil on the corner of the book. It had a pointed nose, two big ears like satellite dishes, and a long thin tail.

  There was no more thumping. They must have finished having sex. I colored in the mouse’s ears.

  I heard the bedroom door open. Maybe it was still the Byrds. But it might have been Bob Dylan. The noise of feet coming down the stairs. I pulled up a piece of paper to hide the mouse.

  Harry came into the kitchen. He was almost as tall as the door frame. Black shiny curls, like a cocker spaniel. A white shirt, half-unbuttoned, making his skin look even darker. He always wore a white shirt. Like he never left the office.

  “Doing your homework?”

  I didn’t answer.

  Harry glanced down at the table. “Maths.”

  This didn’t seem to need an answer either.

  “Eva says you find it hard. You don’t like it.”

  I wouldn’t look up.

  “It’s not difficult. Give me five minutes and I could explain it to you.”

  So superior. Because you went to a private school. The thought of sitting with Harry looking at a maths book made me feel sick. I bent over my rectangles. I listened to him clattering about, making tea, dropping a spoon in the stainless steel sink.

  At the door, on the way out, he stopped. I could feel him standing there, just watching me. Then he said, “You know where I am. If you change your mind.”

  I drew a large black blobby nose on the mouse, pressing hard into the paper. It stared back, affronted.

  I know where you are. You’re always bloody here.

  • • •

  “So what do you do, pet?” said Izzie’s mother, settling back into her chair with a billow of flowery fabric. She wasn’t the only parent who’d turned up in Edinburgh in strange clothes. But she was the only one apparently swathed in curtains.

  “Not much,” said Eva, smiling.

  “She’s a musician,” said Kim, “and an environmental campaigner.”

  They had a table tucked into the corner of the restaurant, half-hidden by a stud wall. This meant their conversation wasn’t drowned out by all the celebratory whooping and cheering from the new graduates around them. But it also meant that the waitress kept forgetting they were there. That’s why I feel so drunk, thought Kim as she refilled her glass. There isn’t enough food to soak up all the alcohol.

  “Which means,” said Harry, “that she travels round the country with her guitar, tramping through muddy fields in Wellington boots.”

  Eva laughed.

  Kim glared at him. “What would you know?”

  Eva’s face was always angles and shadows. But tonight, whenever she stopped smiling, you could see she had dark circles under her eyes. Kim frowned. Was something wrong? Eva was never normally ground down by anything. Sometimes she found other people puzzling. But generally she believed that life sorted itself out if you didn’t stress too much about the details.

  “He came with me once,” said Eva. “To a community in west Wales. A little farming settlement in the woods. I said he couldn’t judge until he’d experienced it.”

  Harry looked mournful. “They made me eat lentils.”

  “Vegetarianism,” said Kim, “is a much more efficient way of feeding the world.”

  “And fermented tofu.”

  “It’s about putting precious land to the best use.”

  “And hemp.” Harry frowned. “Or is that what you wear?”

  A duel of wits with Harry excluded everyone else. Kim knew this. But she couldn’t stop herself. “You can’t pretend that eating a steak is just an individual choice. It isn’t. What you do affects other people.”

  Izzie’s mother glanced down at her empty plate with an expression of alarm.

  “Basically,” said Harry, “Eva was born in the wrong century. She wants to turn the clock back. No TV, no cars, no modern medicine. Her ideal would be some kind of medieval village. Getting water from a well. Milking by hand. Grubbing for potatoes in the dirt.” His expression was wide-eyed and innocent. “Full of people with boils and bad teeth.”

  As if, thought Kim. Eva radiates light. She shines. Children and old ladies gaze after her with wistful smiles. Men stare at her, wondering whether their lives could have been different with a woman like that at their side. Eva, in her tatty hippie clothes, drifting along in her own thoughts, doesn’t notice the effect she has on other people. But I do. And it’s my job to protect her.

  “That’s not what Eva thinks at all.” Kim gripped the edge of the table, feeling the starched white linen under her hands. “She’s searching for a different way of life. It’s not about turning the clock back. It’s about treading lightly on the earth.”

  “Making walls out of mud and straw,” said Harry.

  “Living in balance with nature.”

  “Chanting. There was a lot of chanting in Wales.”

  “It’s a big movement n
ow,” said Kim loudly, because raising the volume seemed the only way to drown Harry out. “There are communities all over Europe. Germany, Italy, France, Spain, Portugal, Lithuania—”

  “We had to use compost toilets. In the dark. Surrounded by Welsh sheep.”

  “—and all across the world. Australia, Brazil, the US—”

  “She wants to live in an ecovillage,” said Harry, leaning sideways towards Izzie’s father, who was looking completely bewildered.

  “Who does? Eva or Kim?”

  “You know,” said Harry, “I often wonder the same thing myself.”

  “It must be a lot cheaper growing your own food,” said Izzie’s mum. “Sometimes I go shopping and I can’t believe my eyes. The prices they charge! I said to the girl in Morrisons’, these days you have to rob a bank just to pay for a KitKat.”

  “Climate change is caused by human greed and an overreliance on cheap oil.” Kim’s voice rose above the hubbub of the restaurant. Diners at other tables were looking up. One of the waiters stood rooted to the spot, transfixed. “We can’t carry on making selfish decisions, or we’ll run out of resources. Politicians keep talking about growth. But what they mean is rampant consumerism.”

  “Would anyone like dessert?” said Izzie, half-standing. “They’ve got steamed ginger pudding with hot toffee sauce.”

  “I don’t know,” said Harry. “Is it vegan?”

  “Our current economic model,” said Kim, her cheeks flushed, “is unsustainable. We have to wake up to reality before it’s too late. What kind of world do we want to pass on to our children and grandchildren? Unless we get to grips with this now, we’re going to run out of time.”

  “Kim?” said Izzie. “Shall we go and find the waitress?”

  Kim screwed up her eyes. Izzie seemed strangely out of focus. “What?”

  “So we can order dessert.”

  “It doesn’t need two of us, does it?”

  Izzie pushed back her chair so violently that it almost fell over. Watching her best friend thread her way through the crowded restaurant, Kim frowned, confused. Was Izzie cross? Why?

  “I do worry about you all,” said Izzie’s mum, turning to Kim in a sudden flurry of chintz, “setting out on your own. It’s all right while you’re living at home. But once you’re in charge of paying all the bills, how are you going to manage?”

  “Izzie can stay with us in London anytime,” said Kim, looking to Eva for confirmation. But her sister seemed to be avoiding her eyes. This was getting ridiculous. What was wrong with everyone?

  “She might take you up on that, pet. After she’s done her teacher training. Her first job could be anywhere, couldn’t it?”

  Kim still couldn’t imagine Izzie teaching. She’d asked her once, as they left a comedy club in the early hours, shivering with cold, “Do you actually like children?”

  Izzie looked confused. “Is that part of the job?”

  Izzie’s mother settled back into her seat. “And what about you, pet? What are your plans for the future?”

  Kim was finding it hard to concentrate. To her left, Harry and Izzie’s dad seemed to have struck up a conversation about growing spring greens. Eva was toying with a butter knife, watching it balance on the end of her finger, catching the light. The restaurant was getting hotter.

  “I’ll do anything for a bit. You know, a call center. Or bar work or something. Just to earn some money.” She sensed that Harry was looking at her. She could feel his gaze resting on her like a heavy weight. “And then I thought I’d try and get a job in housing.”

  “Like an estate agent?”

  Kim looked horrified. “No. Social policy.”

  Harry laughed.

  “And what about you, Harry? What is it that you do?”

  “He’s a banker.” Kim managed to make it sound like a different word entirely. “Which is why he doesn’t understand that some people can’t afford market rents.”

  Izzie was squeezing past the back of her father’s chair. “She’s coming. And she says the sticky ginger pudding is delicious.”

  “What kind of banker?” said Izzie’s mother. “One of those smiley people behind the security glass?”

  Harry shook his head. “In the City. An analyst. I advise investors on what stock to buy.”

  “He gambles,” said Kim. “With other people’s money.”

  Harry leant back in his chair, grinning. “She doesn’t have a very high opinion of banking.”

  “Because the City gets rich at the expense of the poor.”

  “The City is the UK’s biggest industry. It provides jobs for thousands of people.”

  “Rich people.”

  “All people. And pays tax that funds housing benefit, and unemployment benefit, and the NHS—”

  “Bankers,” said Kim, at full volume, “are responsible for everything that’s wrong with this country. They are evil, bloodsucking parasites.” She hit the table for emphasis. Her glass of Rioja upended. Everyone looked down at the huge, spreading stain, seeping into the white cotton, thought Kim, like blood.

  Izzie’s mother shook her head with an expression of tragic gloom. “Can you imagine the size of the laundry bills in a place like this?”

  • • •

  “You know, it’s not even real, what he does. It’s just an illusion. Smoke and mirrors. Figures on a screen. One minute you’re rich, the next you’re nothing. But he doesn’t care. You could be on the streets with all your clothes in a paper bag and he’d still be swanning round in his Porsche, eating Michelin stars and shooting pheasants. That’s what they do, you know. Kill birds that can’t even fly. Their wings aren’t strong enough to get them out of the bushes. But all these fat idiots in pinstripe suits come and shoot at them anyway, just so they can say, Oh, look at me, aren’t I clever, I shot a pheasant. I killed a deer and put its antlers on the wall. I speared a trout. I killed a lion. And then I flew off to the Bahamas in a private jet. You know, he doesn’t even care about global warming? He said we might get champagne in Birmingham if it carries on like this.”

  “Kim?”

  “What?”

  “You’re drunk.”

  Kim and Izzie were back in the restaurant toilets. The meal celebrating their graduation was over. Kim had a vague recollection of being frog-marched away from the table while the others hunted around for coats and jackets. Clinging to the hand basin, she tried to focus. In the mirror she could see her short blond hair sticking up from her head in soft bristles, making her look like a baby chick in a high wind.

  Izzie was rummaging in her bag. “You’ve got to stop shouting at everyone. It’s like being lectured by John Prescott. It’s not the time or the place. We’re meant to be enjoying ourselves. And there’s no point going back to my parents’ hotel for a nightcap if you’re going to bore us all to death with another eco sermon.”

  Kim leant her head against the cold white wall. What’s wrong with me? I didn’t mean to shout at people. And I never drink too much. Ever. It’s not what I do. Eva’s the one who staggers back in the early hours, slamming the front door, tripping over the mat. That’s what I remember from living at home—loud singing at three a.m., broken plant pots. I used to sleep with a pillow over my head. It was the only way to get any peace. During my last two years at school, Eva had a job in a gift shop, selling essential oils and dream catchers. Wafting about in a haze of incense. But every night, she got off her head and persuaded other people to do the same.

  Most people find it hard to sleep in student halls of residence. Slamming doors, shouting in the corridors. But my first few weeks in Edinburgh were bliss. I slept for the first time in months.

  The door to the restaurant toilets burst open. A gaggle of teenage girls came skidding across the floor, novices on a skating rink.

  Izzie found a pot of blusher and brushed her cheeks pink. “I know you hate Harry. But you’re making it really hard for anyone to have a good time. Including me. Everyone’s looking at us. Did you see the woman at the
next table? She was laughing so much I thought she was going to burst.”

  Kim hung her head. I’m acting like a child, she thought. Letting my feelings get the better of me. Have I ruined everything?

  When she looked up, Izzie was staring at their twin reflections side by side in the mirror. They couldn’t have looked less alike. Izzie made you think of a sepia-tinted photograph of Edwardian female perfection—round and soft, with pink cheeks and a cloud of dark hair. Kim—white faced, washed out, angular—looked like a ghost.

  “What?” Kim didn’t like being scrutinized so closely.

  “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

  “Like what?”

  “He’s a smug git who’s going out with your sister. But that’s not enough to make you hate him. There’s something else.”

  Kim shook her head.

  “It goes way back, doesn’t it? What did he do? Steal your pocket money? Kill your hamster? Shred your skipping rope?”

  You don’t understand.

  Izzie looked thoughtful. “You know, sometimes people snipe at each other to hide how they really feel.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m wondering if you secretly like Harry. If you want your sister’s boyfriend for yourself.”

  “No.” Kim looked furious.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I can’t believe you’re even saying it.” It was so way off the mark, it was insulting.

  Izzie shrugged. “I’m only trying to find out what’s going on. Because the way I see it, you’re part of the problem. He’s just fishing. But you grab the bait. Every time. And then he reels you in.”

  Kim swallowed.

  “You let him get to you. And I keep thinking, Why?

  For a moment, they stood there, staring at themselves—Izzie, the picture of rosy health, Kim dusty and white, as if she’d just crawled out of an understairs cupboard.

  Kim dropped her eyes.

  “If I were you,” said Izzie, “I’d make a real effort not to say another word to Harry for the rest of the evening. Just pretend he’s not there.” Izzie twisted the clasp on her bag shut. “Because everyone else quite likes him. And I know you’ll say he was only doing it to show off, but I think it was really kind of him to pay the bill. Before my dad could even find his glasses. And then say that it was our graduation present, so that my parents weren’t embarrassed. It must have cost a fortune. With all the wine we got through.”