by Heidi James
‘OK, but not until after lunch, which will probably be finished around three o’clock, so Granny can watch the Queen.’
‘Nice. I’ll see you then.’ And she hung up.
‘Do you want to come in?’ He stepped back and opened the door wide, but Melanie shook her head.
‘No, it’s alright. We best head off, it’s a bit of a trek.’ She was wearing an old green parka, zipped up tight to her chin with the hood up, the grey nylon fur framing her face. Her hands were rammed deep in her pockets and a plastic carrier bag dangled from her wrist.
‘Hang on a minute then.’ He pulled on his coat, hat and snow boots.
‘Blimey, you look like you’re ready for an Arctic expedition!’ She laughed and lifted her own wellington boot, ‘I look like a farmer! And I’m freezing.’
‘Do you want to borrow some socks? Granny gave me some beauties as a present.’
‘I’ll pass, thanks. Let’s get going.’
Marcus shouldered his bag and called goodbye to the women snoozing in front of the TV, still wearing their paper crowns.
They walked side by side through the still-fresh snow, the only people out and about. Coloured lights flashed in the windows of the houses, and one or two had gone overboard and had flashing reindeer and snowmen on their front lawns.
They reached the main road that cut through town and led out to London shortly before dusk; their breath and voices hung in wisps of vapour before cooling and binding with the air. The chalk cliff, created when they cut through the old hill to build the new High Street and flyover, merged with the snow; the white, soft bones of sea creatures, not yet stone, still damp from being buried under fathoms of the heaving abundant sea and the pale temporary solid water that lay on it now.
They got to Georgie’s not long after four o’clock. The lift was out of order – which Mel said was a blessing as it stank of piss and the lights didn’t always work – so by the time they got to the seventh floor and knocked on her door they were sweaty and red-faced, despite the cold.
‘You’re here! Come in, come in.’ Georgie grabbed them both, pulling them close for a hug. ‘I’m so glad to see you! I’ve got presents and a tree and everything!’ They followed her down the hall after taking off their coats and boots, past the bathroom into her living room, where a small, green, plastic tree, wound with red and gold tinsel and flashing white lights, took pride of place by the TV. A single bed was pushed up under the large window that looked out over the town, with the river behind running khaki and dangerous like an enemy combatant lying low. A row of patchwork cushions lined the bed, converting it to a sort-of sofa. A breakfast bar separated the living area from the small kitchen area. The whole place was spotless and smelt of fresh paint and air freshener.
‘Jesus, this place looks amazing,’ Mel said, pulling out a couple of presents and tucking them under the tree and then handing the bag to Georgie. ‘There’s some chocolates and a bottle of Bacardi from me mum in there for you.’
‘Oh bless her, say thanks for me. D’you really like it? I’m saving up to get carpet, so I’ve just got this for now,’ Georgie wrinkled a round yellow rug with her pointed foot. ‘But I painted all the walls meself, and got the bed linen and everything, and…’ She turned and walked into the kitchen area. ‘See, I’ve got a fridge and a cooker and a washing machine! The social sorted that out and me bed. All brand new an’ all.’ She put the bag on the counter and started opening the kitchen cupboards as if she were a glamour girl displaying prizes on a Saturday night TV show. ‘A fitted kitchen too.’
‘It’s brilliant,’ Mel said and Marcus nodded, unsure what to say.
‘I’ve even got some stools so we can sit and eat proper too.’
‘Perfect.’
Georgie poured beer into glasses – there was no way they were drinking from the can in her gaff – and brought through little bowls filled with peanuts and wrapped sweets.
‘Wow, this is really nice, Georgie. Thank you.’
‘Really?’ She said, watching Mel’s face like a hungry dog.
‘Totally. You’re a proper hostess.’
‘Thank you, I wanted to make it all special, me first Christmas in me own place and everything.’ She sat down on the floor with them and they toasted her flat, and each other.
‘Bloody hell, I forgot to put the music on.’ She jumped up and pressed the switch on her CD player, adjusting the volume until Frank Sinatra crooned the opening lines to White Christmas. ‘I got the Rat Pack Christmas album, like me mum used to have.’
‘Nice touch.’ Mel sipped her beer while Marcus gulped his.
‘I love the Rat Pack,’ he said and belched. The girls laughed.
‘Let’s have our presents!’ Georgie said as she sat back down. Marcus pressed himself back and leaned against the edge of the bed, watching as Georgie unwrapped her present from Melanie.
‘Oh my God,’ she sighed over the tiny figurine of a blue bird with jewelled eyes and outstretched wings, balancing on a twisted wire branch. ‘It’s beautiful.’ She hugged Mel and turned to place it carefully on the window ledge by her bed. Then she opened the hastily-wrapped lavender soap that Marcus had nabbed from his mother’s collection of unwanted gifts from his father’s faithful old parishioners. ‘Thanks, Marcus. Nice one.’
They watched him open his gifts, Melanie cross-legged and straight-backed, Georgie leaning against Mel, her curls twisting up away from her head. There was a box of liqueur chocolates from Georgie; from Mel, a tiny framed portrait of Kurt Cobain hanging on a silver chain.
‘Put it on,’ Georgie said, kneeling up to help fix the clasp around his neck. He pressed his palm flat against the frame, pressing it against his chest.
‘It’s great. Thank you.’ Melanie smiled and winked.
‘Your turn,’ Georgie said and as she moved back to her seat beside Mel she grabbed one of the presents from under the tree and tossed it to Mel.
‘Hmmm.’ She held it up towards the flashing lights and squinted, ‘What have we here?’ She sniffed at it and then shook it gently, her head cocked as if to detect the smallest noise.
‘Just open it!’ Georgie bounced up and down. ‘Come on!’
‘OK.’ Mel laughed, but she unwrapped the paper carefully, slowly easing back the tape as if it were of great importance to preserve the wrapping at all cost.
‘You’re doing me head in, you are such a wind-up!’
Finally, Mel had peeled back all the paper and dropped it to the floor; Georgie grabbed at it and scrunched it up into a tight ball and threw it out towards the kitchen.
‘Do you like it?’
Mel turned the small black leather pouch over in her hand. ‘What it is?’
‘It’s a manicure kit, silly, look.’ Georgie took the pouch and undid the fastening on the other side. ‘See, you’ve got a nail file, a cuticle thingy, a buffer, some nail oil. Everything you need.’
‘I don’t know how to use it.’ Mel gazed at the tools Georgie was waving about.
‘I’ll teach you. Seriously, one thing I’ve learnt now I’m a professional is that you have to be well groomed at all times. It’s essential. Look at me hands.’ She gave Mel the manicure kit back and turned her hands over to show off her perfect grooming. ‘I even do me toes.’ She thrust her legs out and wiggled her painted toes, flashing the dolphin tattoo that leapt from the arch of her foot towards her ankle.
‘Excellent. We can do Marcus too.’ She widened her eyes at him. ‘Professional and well groomed. That’s us. Thank you, G. You’re a star.’
‘Now my present for you.’ He handed her a flat square parcel. ‘It’s pretty obvious what it is so you don’t need to sniff it or anything.’
‘Is it a teddy bear?’ Georgie shouted and poured more beer into her glass. ‘Who needs another drink?’
‘Me please.’ He waggled his empty glass.
&nbs
p; ‘Come on Mel. Drink up.’
‘I will,’ she said, gazing down at the present she balanced on the palm of her hands.
‘What are you waiting for? Open it!’
He laughed, ‘Go on. You’ll like it.’
She looked up at them both. ‘I know I will, I just want to enjoy this moment, before I know what it is. Just for a second.’ She closed her eyes for a just a fraction longer than a blink and then ripped the paper back.
‘You got it,’ she whispered. ‘You remembered.’ He nodded as she finished pulling off the paper and turning the record over started reading the sleeve. It was the best gift he would ever give anyone.
‘What is it?’ Georgie twisted forward to read the cover. ‘Oh, one of your noisy Grunge bands. Nice one, Marcus.’
‘Bleach. I’ve wanted this for ages.’ She smiled at him, her eyes locked on his with such happiness that he could’ve believed it to be a permanent state of being, a fixed bond between them. Did he believe that that was enough? One present? That one thoughtful action would be enough to sustain a friendship? ‘I love it.’
Not even Georgie’s lack of a record player could dim her joy. She kept it on her lap even when the Chinese take-away arrived with the chow mein and Georgie’s pork dumplings. She didn’t move it when she gave them both a chopsticks lesson and she clutched it to her chest when they played the ‘Who?’ game as the three of them lay in front of the soothing light of the TV, chewing on chocolates handed over from the large tin of Quality Street that Georgie had in her lap.
‘Who would you most like to be? It can be anytime, anywhere, but it has to be a real person. One who’s been alive. Right?’
‘OK. You first then,’ he said, reclining on Georgie’s bed, lolling against the cushions, half-drunk on the weak lager Georgie kept pouring into his glass.
‘I would be Princess Di.’
‘Really? Why?’
‘Because she’s beautiful, and kind, she’s like an angel. She hugs them AIDs patients and that. She even went to Liverpool to visit them football fans in hospital. I love her. And I’d have blonde straight hair – I would love to have blonde straight hair.’
‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘What about you, Mel?’
‘Easy. Kim Gordon. Cool, genius, strong, brilliant. End of story.’
‘Good choice.’
‘Who’s that then?’ Georgie said, getting up and tidying away the foil trays and the scraps of wrapping paper.
‘Only the most amazing guitar player and singer on the planet.’
‘Don’t forget songwriter,’ Melanie chipped in.
‘Good point, well made.’ He raised his glass.
‘Oh right, fair enough. Your turn, Marcus, who would you be?’
‘I want to be Melanie,’ he said. Straight out, no hesitation, no umming or ahhing, no false modesty or weighing up the consequences of what he might say. It was the most honest moment of his life, maybe.
‘Don’t be daft,’ Georgie said, her round cheeks glowing on/off, on/off with the tree lights. ‘Someone famous or rich and a man, obviously.’
‘No,’ he slurred. ‘I want to be Mel.’
‘He can be me if he wants,’ Mel said and finally finished her glass of beer. ‘But he can’t take back my present.’
‘Alright then. Weirdoes. Where do you see yourself in five years?’
‘Where do I see myself?’ Mel stretched her arms over her head, pressing her shoulders up against her ears, and yawned.
‘Yeah, your ambitions, you know. Me social worker always asks me this. She says it’s crucial to aim high and to have a plan.’ She undid the cap on the bottle of Bacardi that Mel’s mum had sent over.
‘What’re yours then?’
‘I’ve got loads, but the main ones are lose weight, get promoted, get married and have a honeymoon and a white dress, get a house and a garden, and then eventually, after we’ve had some holidays and saved up some money, I’d have a couple of kids and be a brilliant mum.’
‘You’ll be a brilliant mum, Georgie.’
‘I will, won’t I? I’d never let ’em down, I’d hug ’em and give ’em sweets and dress them beautiful in little Levi’s and dresses and Kicker boots. I’d marry a good bloke, with a car and a job. We could live here while we were saving up and I’d never see a social worker ever again.’
‘Sounds lovely. What about you Marcus?’
Shrugging, he said, ‘I’m going to be a journalist and expose all the wrongdoing in the world. Move to town, have a flat in Chelsea and a sports car. Something like that.’
‘No wife or kids?’ Georgie asked handing him a tumbler of Bacardi and Coke. A look flashed between him and Mel, almost invisible.
‘Yeah, eventually, of course.’ He slurped the drink and coughed, head swimming.
‘I’m going to travel the world, I’m going to dip my toe in every ocean and sea there is,’ Mel said, standing up and walking over to the window. ‘And I might not come back.’ She was still holding the record.
‘What about your mum? You can’t just leave your family and that. This is where you’re from. You’d have to come back eventually, you belong here.’
‘No I don’t. This is just a place, that’s all.’
‘But it’s dangerous. What if you get kidnapped by some foreigner? Or catch something from the water? And flying! I tell you what, there’s no way I’d bloody get on a plane, what if some nut job blows it up like that Lockerbie bomber? Boom! Just like that – you’re scattered in tiny pieces over the ground like bits of rubbish.’
‘How will you go on honeymoon if you won’t fly, then?’ he asked.
‘We’ll go somewhere nice here. Or get the ferry to France. There’s no way you’d get me on a plane. I’d scream me head off.’
‘Well, I’m going as soon as I can,’ Mel said, leaning her forehead against the glass. ‘I’d rather be dead than stuck here.’
Blue Peter
When Mother woke me the next morning I was still flat out on the sofa.
‘Have you heard from Callum?’ She stood at the end of the couch, looking at me. She seemed a long way away.
‘No.’
‘Well, have you called him?’
‘Yes. I’ve called him.’
‘I can’t understand why he didn’t let you know they were coming, he seemed so nice.’
‘It’s his job.’
‘But why did they come to see you?’
‘I told you yesterday. Asking questions about Melanie.’
‘But why?’
‘I don’t know Mother, maybe because you made such a song and dance about our friendship to Detective Inspector McMahon.’
‘But I don’t understand why they need to ask about her now?’
‘The body they found, the policeman? He was her stepfather.’
‘Oh God, that’s terrible! Could that have something to do with her going missing?’
‘Maybe. The police seem to think so.’
‘What did you say to them?’
‘What could I say? I don’t know anything.’
‘No, of course you don’t.’
‘How could I? It’s ridiculous.’
‘So there’s nothing we need to talk about?’
‘What do you mean?’ I pulled myself up to sit and groaned. My head was pounding.
‘Nothing... Just I care very much that you’re OK, and—’
‘I’m fine. I’m fine. I’ve got no job, I’m hiding at my mother’s, my reputation is in tatters and I might face criminal charges, but I’m fine.’
I got up stiff and crooked, my breath thick with stale wine. The room swung and rocked around me, its clutter adding to my nausea. Objects tilted in and out of view: the wilting plant in a pot with dry soil; the small bell, shaped like a lady wearing a crinoline; an oval gilt frame holding a sp
rig of purple vetch pressed and dried by my mother’s sister when she was a little girl, not long before she died of meningitis; a photo of my father in tennis whites, one hand on his hip and the other holding the racquet almost as if it were a cane and he was about to launch into a song and dance routine. He was grinning at the camera, his eyes screwed up against the sun. There was stuff everywhere – clean, recently dusted – but just stuff, dragging us down. Ghosts. I staggered out of the room to be sick, leaving my mother to call after me.
I remember the day my father died. Or I think I do. Blue Peter was on TV and I was sitting on the floor watching. It was summer, and I was wearing black plimsolls with an elastic tongue because I couldn’t manage laces. I’d been playing in the garden and had grubby knees. Granny was there and what seemed like a huge crowd of other adults, strangers, were gathering in the study. Someone brought me a glass of squash to drink, but it was too strong and I couldn’t swallow it. I wanted my mother. I knew that Daddy was ill and in the hospital, Granny had told me to pray for him when she’d put me to bed the night before. It felt almost like Christmas, or a party: lots of adults standing around talking; the change of routine. I was just a little boy, but some things remain sharp in my memory.
At some point, the bishop – my father’s boss – came in and sat on the chair beside me. Simon Groom was reading out a viewer’s letter, and a golden retriever sat with him on the Blue Peter sofa.
‘Hello Marcus, what’s this you’re watching?’
‘Blue Peter.’ My throat felt sore and itchy. The room was hot and all the windows were closed.
‘So it is. May I turn it off?’ He stood and leaned over to turn the switch. The picture disappeared with a buzz. ‘I need to talk with you.’
He squatted down in front of me, a slender man with thick grey hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He was wearing his purple shirt and white collar and black trousers. ‘Can I sit here?’
I nodded and he lowered himself down to sit almost cross-legged with me, like another little boy. He told me that my father had died, had gone home to Jesus, though I don’t really remember the exact words, just his sitting on the floor. But I do remember clearly that he said, ‘You have to look after your mother now and be brave.’ Then he patted me on the head before pulling himself up to stand and leaving the room.