by Kat Gordon
“I was raped,” I yelled at him. “Some arsehole raped me and then I was pregnant, and now I’ve had a miscarriage and you were never there for me.” I sat up and tried to swing my legs out of the bed. “And it wasn’t my fault, Dad. It wasn’t my fault.”
My heart monitor was bleeping like crazy. I sensed, rather than saw, nurses hurrying in and trying to get me to lie down again. One of them hissed at my father, “You should know better than to get the patient riled up like this, Doctor.”
“Tallulah,” he said, “you’re trying to pay me back for putting you in the school in the first place, but it won’t work, do you understand me? I don’t blame you, but… ”
“Get him out of here,” I screamed. I carried on screaming until another of the nurses grabbed my father by the elbow and steered him to the door.
The first one who had looked in was shushing me. “It’s alright, calm down now. This isn’t helping matters.”
I looked back at him as he was jostled out of the room, his face still white.
“I don’t want to see him,” I shouted. “Don’t let him in.”
“Alright, Tallulah. Just calm down.”
I didn’t see him again.
The nurse who gave me a check-up after the procedure told me briskly that I’d be able to leave that afternoon. “Who shall we inform?” she asked, clipboard in hand.
“I’m taking a taxi,” I said. “Back to school. Someone’s meeting me there.”
“Your father?”
“No.”
“I see. Is it the young gentleman waiting outside?”
My heart thumped painfully. “Who’s waiting outside?”
“I don’t know. He’s at reception now.”
“Did he say his name was Toby Gates?”
“I didn’t get his name.”
“Tell him I’m asleep,” I said.
“We’re going to need the bed soon,” she said, and moved off.
I opened the door to my room a crack and peered down the hall to my left. I could see Toby sitting in a chair opposite the reception desk, his head tilted back. To my right the corridor marched onwards. I could see a sign for toilets and baby changing, and a payphone in the distance. I closed the door and got dressed quickly. I called a cab and then hung up and dialled reception.
“Can you pass on a message to Toby Gates?” I asked. “He’s at reception now. Tell him he needs to call Edith immediately at Honeysuckle House – it’s important.”
I opened the door again and saw Toby sit up, like someone was talking to him. He looked in my direction, and pointed towards the pay phone sign. I gave it a minute; when I next looked out, he was gone.
I checked myself out of the hospital and got into the taxi. At school I asked the driver to wait for me. The Housemistress started out of her seat when I walked in, but I called to her, “My dad’s waiting outside. I just need to collect my things.”
She nodded and sat back down, looking awkward.
No one was in the dorm, luckily. I didn’t know what I would say to Edith if I saw her, or anyone else. I grabbed my suitcase and shoved my clothes inside, my shoes, towel, the medical textbook, a packet of digestive biscuits I’d been stashing underneath the bed, my wallet, my toothbrush and two framed photographs: one of my mother, the other of my grandmother and me. I left the bracelet Edith had given me and Tom Sawyer – I still hadn’t finished it.
I dragged my suitcase down the stairs and waved to the Housemistress. “Bye.”
“Goodbye, Tallulah,” she said, looking like she was about to burst into tears. “Don’t forget us.”
The driver helped me manoeuvre my case into the taxi, climbed back in and started the meter. “Where to, love?”
“Shrewsbury train station,” I said. As we drove off I looked straight ahead, but I heard the bell go for lunch break, and out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw red hair among the heads bobbing between buildings on their way to the canteen.
I moved to a youth hostel in London. I didn’t leave a forwarding address.
The sky outside the window is angry; the wind’s picked up and is chasing dark clouds our way. They’re chafing above the hospital, and I can almost feel the thunder building up inside them.
Amid the chaos, the city is winding down; cars choke into life then rumble off, cats spit at each other and people click off light-switches and computer screens. I have a sudden craving for chips, fat yellow ones in paper twists with a mountain of salt on top. Malkie bought some like those for me when we came in to London to visit the mechanic. We found a wall somewhere to sit on, with a streetlight nearby, and ate them, picking them up with hands encased in fingerless gloves, letting the vinegar seep through the bottom of the wrapping and onto our jeans. We probably looked like a couple of tramps.
“Tallulah, love, you’ll catch a cold like that,” Aunt Gillian says.
I move my forehead from the windowpane.
I wonder, if my mother was right about damaged people, how’s it affected Aunt Gillian. I guess she worries too much and that keeps people at a distance. Aunt Vivienne doesn’t trust anyone, Uncle Jack went to jail, my father…
“Did Grandad ever hit Dad?” I ask.
“Now, really,” Aunt Gillian says. “Where did that come from?”
Aunt Vivienne gives a short bark. “He hit all of us,” she says.
“Let’s not talk about this now,” Aunt Gillian says.
“Though it was Jack he really had it in for.” Aunt Vivienne inspects her nails.
“Why?”
“Jack was the youngest, the baby. And he was naughty. Our father used to say the beating was to teach him discipline.”
“Jack wasn’t just naughty,” Aunt Gillian says. “You were both naughty. But Jack was bad. He was selfish and mean. He stole, Vivienne, and he wouldn’t say sorry, ever. No one could handle him. He used to punch us. Bite us. He was wild.”
“He was a little boy,” Vivienne says, and I think I catch her eyes glistening. “Not an animal. Don’t speak of him like he was that. He’s had a shitty life, Gillian, and you know it. The bastard used him as a punching bag and no one ever stepped in to help him. And Jack was the one who provoked Albert if he seemed to be focusing on me, don’t forget that.” She wheels around to look at me. “The last time he came for me, Jack bit through his finger. He left me alone after that.”
I’m stunned. I guess Uncle Jack was nice to one person, at least.
“There’s only been one person who ever loved Jack in his entire life,” Aunt Vivienne continues. “How do you think that must feel?”
“Well, he’s difficult to love,” Aunt Gillian snaps.
They glare at each other, then Aunt Gillian throws her hands up in the air. “For goodness’s sake, you’d think we were invisible,” she says.
“Not much chance of that,” Aunt Vivienne says.
“I want to know what they’re doing.”
“They’re probably doing a pericardiocentesis,” I say, mechanically. “They need to get rid of the fluid that’s built up in the sac around the heart, so they put a needle inside and cut open a window to drain it.”
“Oh,” Aunt Gillian says; she looks green, then seems to make an effort to pull herself together. “You have been a mine of information today.”
“I didn’t realise we had a second doctor in the family,” Aunt Vivienne says. Her chest is still heaving. “Pity we’re not Jewish.”
“They had to do it for my mum,” I say, looking her in the eye.
“Ah,” she says, and looks away first.
There’s a momentary silence.
“I’m going to find someone,” Aunt Gillian says.
Aunt Vivienne shrugs, and we follow her into the corridor.
“No one’s around,” Aunt Gillian is saying. “What kind of hospital is this, anyway?”
“Please,” someone says, and we turn as one. It’s the nurse I spoke to this morning. “We can’t have you blocking the hall like this. There might be an emergency.”
She looks sympathetic. “Why don’t you all go home for a few hours? Get some rest. I’m sure we won’t be able to tell you anything definitive until later this evening. We’ll call you as soon as we have any news.”
“I don’t see why we have to leave,” Aunt Gillian says, querulously, “we haven’t been causing any trouble.”
“I’m not saying you’re a trouble,” the nurse says, gently.
“Why then?” Aunt Gillian asks, but Aunt Vivienne interrupts her – “Yes, thank you, Nurse. We’ll go home and wait for a phone call.”
“I’ll call you myself,” she says.
“I’m not going,” Aunt Gillian says, as soon as the nurse is out of earshot.
“You heard what the nice lady said, Gillian.”
“Viv, he’s our brother. You don’t go home when your brother is being operated on.”
“You do when you’re told to.”
“Just think how it would look.”
“For God’s sake, Gillian. We’re not being followed by the national newspapers.”
“I know, I know,” Aunt Gillian says. She looks frantic, and I’m not sure she really heard Aunt Vivienne at all. “There must be somewhere we can be out of the way. He’s a doctor here for goodness sake. You’d think they’d bend the rules a little for his family. We’re almost one of them.”
Aunt Vivienne looks pointedly at Aunt Gillian’s Cartier watch.
“They said they’ll call as soon as anything happens,” I say. “There’s nothing else we can do.” I’m tired. I want a smoke and a sandwich and to curl up under my duvet and sort through everything that’s going on in my head.
“What about a café in the area?”
“They’re closing, Gillian.”
“Well, why don’t you stay over, Tallulah? That way we can be together when the news comes through.”
“Don’t you think he’ll make it?” I ask. I feel dumb for not realising it sooner; there are beads of sweat gathering at the roots of her hair and her mouth looks almost bloodless under the lipstick. Maybe she only gets through things by pretending they’re not happening, but now she can’t pretend anymore. Or maybe I’m in shock – I vaguely remember being anxious a while ago but now I’m definitely not, a little buzzy, maybe. The other two waver in front of me, like shapes in the desert. It couldn’t happen, a voice inside me keeps saying. He couldn’t die before I understood everything, not now I’ve actually started asking questions.
“Oh no,” Aunt Gillian says, hurriedly. “No, of course that’s not it.”
Aunt Vivienne blows air out through her mouth, noisily. “So we can leave?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
We gather our things and head over to the lift.
“Will you be going back to yours?” Aunt Gillian asks; she looks like she’s trying to be casual.
“I think I should.”
We reach my bus stop.
“I’m going to call a cab,” Aunt Gillian says. “Would you like me to drop you off?”
“No thanks. I like the bus.”
“I’ll get in with you, Gillian,” Aunt Vivienne says.
“Oh, alright,” Aunt Gillian says. She takes my hand in hers and squeezes it. “I’ll see you soon,” she says, uncertainly.
“Soon,” I say.
She kisses me on the cheek and they move off.
The bus takes ages to arrive. I smoke two cigarettes and organise my purse, throwing out old ticket stubs and chewing-gum wrappers and a two-pence coin that seems to be growing mould.
When I board the bus I sit at the front of the top deck again, leaning against the yellow rail nearly all the way home. Some man comes and sits next to me, tries to strike up a conversation. He’s about twenty years older than me. “How long have you lived here?” he asks.
“All my life.”
“I love London,” he says. “So busy, so metropolitan.”
“Sure.”
“I’m from Montreal, originally. Lived in Paris for a few years. Paris is more chic than London, but not as lively, don’t you think?” His accent is different to Malkie’s, but there’s something about the way he looks, the way he’s slouching forwards in his seat that reminds me of him. I feel like crying. “I’ve never been to Paris,” I say.
“It’s not possible,” he says in mock horror. “So close!”
I try to smile at him, but I can feel my eyelids starting to close.
“I’m sorry, am I bothering you?”
“No,” I say. “I’m just tired. Excuse me.”
I go and sit on the lower deck. I can feel his eyes on my back as I make my way down the stairs, clutching on tightly in case I lose my balance.
It’s late when I get home. I pee as soon as I get in, and wash my hands thoroughly, scrubbing underneath my nails. Looking at Aunt Vivienne’s perfect manicure all day has made me feel grubby. I let myself into my flat, boil the kettle and scrape my hair back into a ponytail, then try to find a face-wipe to clean away some of the dirt and grease that I’ve picked up. Now the water’s ready, I fancy a beer instead. On the table my phone bleeps pathetically, the battery is almost dead. I have to be available for the hospital, I think. Fucking shit. Maybe Aunt Gillian’s right. Maybe I should be more worried. Maybe we shouldn’t have left. What if he wakes up and no one’s there and he dies of neglect? Or he might never wake up, and I’ll never get to see him alive again.
I need to distract myself, do something positive. I grab a beer, get out a notepad and pen and sit on my bed, tallying up my monthly outgoings. I could move to a smaller flat, if that’s possible. I could stop eating.
I draw a cat at the bottom of the page, with a collar. I’ve done the research. I could start off as a healthcare assistant – I don’t know how well they get paid, though, or if they get paid at all.
I can cope with the long hours, the heavy lifting, the sadness. As long as it’s not my own family. I remember how my father felt in my hands the other day.
I write Mr Tickles underneath my doodle and shut the notepad. I take a swig of the beer. I can ask at the hospital about work experience. I don’t know if I can stand another vigil in the waiting-room though. Maybe I’ll go to work tomorrow – just until I hear about the operation.
I go to bed with my phone plugged in to the socket a few feet away; the green charging light makes me feel better.
I chose the youth hostel in Kings Cross because of its distance from my family, rather than its standard of hygiene. The bathrooms were windowless, the stairs always smelled like pee, and the tables and chairs in the kitchen were nailed to the floor.
‘Charming,’ I imagined my grandmother saying, ‘but beggars can’t be choosers,’ I reminded her.
The manager took a week’s payment up front and pushed the register across the desk for me to sign. I scribbled something down – the first name I could think of.
“Lauryn Hill,” he read.
“Yep.”
“That’s not your real name.”
“Why would you think that?”
“Not my business,” the manager said, deadpan.
I took the key from his outstretched hand.
I sent a letter to my father, telling him not to look for me. I told him I wasn’t interested in seeing any of them ever again. I walked halfway across London to post it from a different address, and if he was trying to find me, I didn’t hear about it.
Kings Cross in 1997 was supposedly in the middle of a regeneration project, but it looked pretty grotty to me. The building façades were peeling or blackened by pollution; every other shop was a kebab takeaway or a casino, and traffic blared past at all hours of the day and night.
“I thought this was meant to be a red-light district,” one of the backpackers from my dorm said. “I’ve only met one prozzy. She had a kid with her and he’d shat all down his leg.”
I was sharing a mixed dormitory with only one other girl. It felt strange after the strictness of school dorms, and I never got used to walking in on boys changing.
Sometimes new faces would appear in the place of old ones, but however enthusiastic they started out, they all ended up lying in bed fully clothed in the middle of the day. Me and the other girl went about our business, both job-hunting, although she was also taking evening classes; seeing her scuttling off at seven in the evening, textbooks clutched to her chest, made me feel ashamed.
I applied for the waitressing job after she showed me the advert. ‘Needed: female 16-25 years, good memory, flexible hours.’
“I have fixed hours for lessons,” she said. “Otherwise I’d apply – it’s about twenty minutes on the bus.”
“I’ll give it a go,” I said.
I disliked my boss from the beginning. I was wearing black woolly tights, a black, high-waisted cotton skirt and cropped black jumper when I turned up for the interview. He took one look at me and sneered. I felt my stomach drop. I handed him my CV and waited while he flicked his eyes over it.
He gestured to two grubby chairs in the middle of the floor. We sat down. “How old are you, then?”
“Sixteen.”
“And you went to a fancy school?”
“Yes.”
“Ever waitressed before?”
“Yes,” I lied. “Private events.” What I mean is I carried a cake out from the kitchen at my mother’s birthday party.
He held his hands up. “Well, I hope we won’t be too low-class for you.”
I ground my teeth. “I hope so too.”
He scowled at me. “I guess we need someone who can speak the bloody language,” he said. “Can you start nine a.m Monday?”
“Yes.”
“You’re hired.” He pushed himself up and scratched his giant belly. “Cash in hand – come fifteen minutes early so I can show you the ropes. After that, it’s a rota system.”
I went back to the hostel. One of the boys was in the dorm, reading On the Road.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey.”
“How did your interview go?”
“I got the job.”
“Cool.”
“Not really. The owner’s a knob.”
“Fuck the establishment,” he said. “What’s it for, anyway?”
“Waitressing.”
“That’s alright, right? Good tips.”