by Carys Bray
ISSY’S HANDS ARE cold, so are her feet. She wants Mum to come back. She wants to get up and find Mum, wants to climb into Mum’s lap and nestle in the warm wrap of her arms. But her eyelids are heavy; every time she opens them they collapse shut, forcing her back into sleep. She feels as if she is falling through the mattress, down through the ceiling into the kitchen, past the linoleum and down, and down.
– 4 –
Piss Off
When Jacob’s friends arrive, Al has to stand in the hallway, holding the front door open for kid after kid while trying to remember Mum’s instructions about smiling at people and saying, “Come in” in a voice that doesn’t simultaneously declare, “Get lost.”
He spent most of the morning hiding in his room, imagining what it would be like to score a last-minute Champions League winner for Liverpool and practicing a variety of goal celebrations in front of the mirror. Mum called him several times, but he pretended not to hear. It was for her own good; if he’d gone downstairs to help, he’d have only done it wrong and made things worse. He shouldn’t even be at home; today’s the first day of the junior football season and he should be speeding down the wing of one of the pitches at Hightown, not answering the door to a load of bratty seven-year-olds.
It always feels weird when ordinary people come round; the picture of Jesus in the hall seems to double in size and Al feels like an outsider, someone who has grown up in the country of the house without managing to learn its language. A few of the kids’ mums offer to stay and help but he says, “No thanks.” A house full of nonmember women expecting forbidden cups of tea would make Mum even more pissy.
When every kid has arrived and Mum has herded them into the living room, she claps her hands and says, “Quiet, please,” but no one listens. Some of the kids are singing rude versions of “Happy Birthday,” others are bouncing on the sofa, and one little monster is swinging the old light saber around his head. Mum is all sweaty and she looks as if she’s going to cry; perhaps that’s why she gets it wrong when she says, “Shush. Shush! Jacob’s big sister, Zipporah, will be down soon, she’s just finishing her homework, and this is Jacob’s big brother, Alma, who’s going to—”
“Actually, I prefer to be called Al,” he corrects. But it’s too late, little kids are teasing machines, weakness is their favorite smell, they can sniff the tiniest whiff of it on anyone.
“Hey, Alma!” The kids giggle. “Al-ma, Al-ma.”
And Al, who has already had enough of Mum’s endless pleas for help and her nail-me-to-a-cross expression, shouts, “Piss off!”
Several of the children snigger, but some, including Jacob, are shocked. Mum’s face collapses for a moment, and Al realizes the most helpful thing he can do is disappear.
“I think I’ll go out to the garden for a bit.”
“No,” Mum says. “Playing football’s hardly a punishment. Go to your room, find a book, and don’t come back down ’til everyone’s gone home. And check on your sister while you’re up there.” He stomps up the stairs and into his room. He has been telling everyone not to introduce him as Alma for ages, ever since he went to Matty’s house for the first time and Matty’s dad, Steve, said “Hey, Matty, I thought this Alma you were going on about was a girl!” Steve apologized and ruffled Al’s hair and then he said, “There used to be an Alma in Coronation Street. I thought it was a girl’s name, but what do I know?”
When Al got home and told Mum, she apologized so painstakingly that he was forced to say it didn’t matter, when it did—it does. At least she’s sorry. Dad doesn’t even care; he’s the one who insisted on scriptural names for everyone. Jacob and Issy got off lightly and no one minds about Zippy’s name, they think it’s funny; she sometimes gets birthday cards picturing that puppet with the zipper mouth that used to be on TV years ago. Dad says it’s important to “look for the positive”; having an unusual name is a “missionary tool,” and it’s up to Al to make the most of it by telling people that Alma is the name of a prophet from the Book of Mormon. As if. Of course, Dad means Alma Senior, Mr. Humble-Goody-Two-Shoes, and not his wicked son, Alma the Younger, who got struck down by an angel.
Dad doesn’t get stuff. He’s one of the only people Al knows who is the same in real life as he is at church. It’s as if Dad lives in the overlapping bit of one of those Venn diagrams, straddling both worlds. Other people adapt, they step from circle A to circle B, they act normal in real life and accessorize their Sunday clothes with holy words and best manners, but Dad is unchanging. He exists in a perfect egg of divine assurance. He always says and does whatever God wants him to. “Obedience is the first law of heaven,” he said when he explained why he had to go to the missionary meeting today. Al noticed that Mum’s eyes did a quarter-pipe roll as Dad spoke, but she acted like they were just skating about of their own accord when she realized she was being watched.
He picks Bad Guys of the Book of Mormon off his shelf. Dad ordered it specially from Salt Lake City and it seemed like it might be OK ’cause the bad guys in the Book of Mormon are pretty brutal, but it’s not even a story, it’s like a really long lesson, full of stuff about passing through hardships and never complaining—it’s even got bloody footnotes.
Al skims a page, then puts the book down and tiptoes along the hall to Jacob and Issy’s room. He pokes his head round the door and sees an Issy-shaped hump on the bottom bunk.
“Wassup, Issy-wizzy?” He leans farther into the room to make sure she can hear him. “Are you sulking ’cause it’s not your party? Betcha are.”
When Issy doesn’t respond, he heads to Mum and Dad’s room, where he bounces on the bed a few times. The bed isn’t as bouncy as it was when he was a little kid. He tries a seat drop and the bed groans and metal mattress springs poke his butt. He gets off and sits down at Mum’s dressing table. She’s not got much stuff on it, just an old photograph from years ago and a jewelry box. He scowls at the photograph. It’s of the whole family at the docks in Liverpool and they’re all smiling, even Issy in her buggy, all except him and no wonder—he’s wearing a 1990 Liverpool shirt Dad bought for a fiver on eBay because he refused to “condone” Carlsberg, but it was just an excuse: When the sponsorship deal changed, the shirts were “too expensive.” Al puts the picture down. He opens Mum’s jewelry box, stuffs his hand into the jumble of brightly colored beads and listens to the scratch of glass and plastic. He opens the dressing-table drawers and finds some old, empty makeup cases and a box of tampons, which he unfastens. The tampons are wrapped in orange paper and they rustle when he touches them. He takes one out and pretends to smoke it like a cigar while he watches himself in the mirror. Smoking is against the Word of Wisdom and he’s promised Dad that he will never, ever do it. Steven Gerrard wouldn’t smoke, only ancient French footballers like Zidane do it, but sometimes Al wonders what it tastes like and why people enjoy it so much and he thinks that one day he might try it, just to see. He stops smoking the tampon and peels away its paper. He’s never seen an actual tampon. He fiddles with the pieces and a roll of cardboard comes away in his hand. There’s a string dangling from the other roll and he pulls on it and the tampon pops out. He tries to put the whole thing back together but now the tampon seems too big for the cardboard bit, so he just stuffs the pieces back in the box and hopes Mum won’t notice.
He gets up, goes over to Dad’s bedside cupboard, and opens the drawers: socks, handkerchiefs, and folded piles of Dad’s old-fashioned Temple garment underwear. Once, when he was at Matty’s house, they looked in Steve’s drawer and found a packet of condoms. When Matty had finished pretending to throw up they stole one and hid in Matty’s room, taking turns trying to stretch it over their heads. Dad’s drawers are boring and Al isn’t expecting to find anything noteworthy in Mum’s either, but he looks. There are socks, bras, and wormy bundles of Mum’s Sunday tights in the top drawer. The bottom drawer is full of folded Temple garments like Dad’s, but silky-smooth. He stuffs a hand into the glossy pile and feels something stiff and crispy undern
eath. He digs below the underwear and pulls out a cylinder of money, secured by a red elastic band. He unties the band and the money roll opens like a time-lapse flower. He counts sixty-two tenners—six hundred and twenty pounds.
When people find loads of money in movies they throw it in the air and laugh. Al settles for a more muted celebration and holds it at head height before letting it fall onto the bed like a shower of leaves. He’s never seen so much cash. He gathers it back into a pile, rolls it, and wraps it in the elastic band. He fully intends to put it back, he does, but then he thinks about Dad refusing to pay his football association registration, about the humiliation of turning up at training sessions each week knowing he won’t be allowed to play in any official matches. And he thinks about the time he really wanted to buy Matty’s limited-edition Steven Gerrard Match Attax card and Dad wouldn’t give him the money, so he used the emergency fiver he’s supposed to keep in his blazer pocket—which was fine until Mum asked to borrow it one day when she didn’t have any cash. And then he had to admit he’d spent it, and although he got a new fiver, he also got a major telling off and Dad called him a nasty thief. He curls his hand around the money. It feels good.
Before Dad put a stop to football, Al used to imagine that he’d play in the Premier League one day and make enough to buy Mum a big house with a cleaner and everything. Mum washes all the clothes; she also irons them and puts them away. There’s no reason for anyone else ever to open her drawers, and that makes the money seem like a secret—but it doesn’t make sense: Mum hasn’t even got a job. Dad has to give her money each week to buy food and the other stuff everyone needs. He stuffs the money in the zip-up pocket of his hoodie. He’ll look after it for a bit; he’ll put it back later and then he’ll remind Mum about his football association registration fee and his out-of-date uniform. If she acts all innocent, he’ll ask whether Dad knows about the money. He won’t rat her out, he’d never do that, he’s on her side. He even told her so a few weeks ago when Dad was out—probably helping someone—and Brother Campbell and one of the missionaries popped round to deliver the Home Teaching message and check whether everyone was saying their prayers and reading their scriptures.
After Brother Campbell had finished lecturing them all, he said, “Would you like to assign someone to say a prayer, Alma?”
“I’ll choose someone,” Mum offered.
Brother Campbell shook his head. “The priesthood is like an umbrella, Sister Bradley. The men hold it and the women are protected by it. Alma should assign the prayer. He’s the man of the house when the Bishop isn’t here.”
“I’m the adult when Ian isn’t here,” Mum said, and then she laughed. “Hang on, I’m also an adult when Ian is here! Anyway, I’m happy to ask someone to say the prayer.”
“But you’d like to fulfill your responsibilities as a priesthood holder, wouldn’t you, Alma?”
Al didn’t care about his responsibilities, he just wanted Brother Campbell to shut up and stop treating Mum like an idiot. “Who did you want to say it, Mum?”
“I was going to ask Brother Campbell,” she said.
“Brother Campbell, would you say the closing prayer, please?” Al asked.
Brother Campbell was totally owned! He had no choice but to say the prayer. And afterward, when the Home Teachers had gone, Al followed Mum into the kitchen.
“I’m on your side,” he said, half expecting her to thank him. She lifted the dishes out of the dish drainer and into the cupboard. The plates scraped each other as she forced them into a stack. When she’d finished she turned round and said, “Alma, there aren’t any sides in this family.”
Al strokes the bump of money through his pocket.
Borrowing, that’s what he’s doing. He heads back to his room and Bad Guys of the Book of Mormon, the worst of whom happens to be his namesake.
ISSY IS LYING in a cold bath of bone hurt.
She wants Mum.
There is music—“Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday, dear Jacob”—but it is far away, like underwater singing.
There were four candles on her last birthday cake. She blew them all out at once and Mum said, “Make a wish, Issy.”
She wishes now, for Mum to come. Where is Mum?
– 5 –
Happy Is the Man That Hath His Quiver Full
Ian sings along to a Tabernacle Choir CD as he drives home from Liverpool. “Though deep’ning trials throng your way, Press on, press on, ye Saints of God!” His voice is loud and quite tuneful. He likes to pretend the Tabernacle Choir is accompanying him as he keeps his own time and adds extra vibrato to the longer notes like a soloist.
Driving along the dock road makes him feel small, an insignificant speck of humanity alongside the looming structures and machinery of industry. He passes the empty, crumbling acropolis of the tobacco warehouse, Goliathan container cranes, and industrial buildings. The railway line, a fire station, car dealerships, and a Chinese supermarket graze his peripheral vision, but the arc of his imagination is occupied by the docks. By soot-streaked red bricks, the crisscross of colored and corrugated metals, iron railings, concrete, and occasional snapshot slices of ships.
Ian is a pioneer. He drives a Toyota Estima, but if the situation arose he knows he would be equally at home with a covered wagon, or even a handcart. Brother Rimmer’s got a handcart in his garage. He constructed it in the seventies in preparation for the trek to Zion, back when people still talked about fleeing to Jackson County, Missouri, and it seemed like the Second Coming was just around the corner; before the Brethren told everyone to stay put and build Zion in their own communities. When Ian was a small boy, Brother Rimmer used to pull his handcart to church activities and give the children rides around the parking lot while they sang pioneer songs—“Westward ho, Westward ho!”—and pretended to shoot Indians. The pleasure of this memory makes Ian sing louder. He wishes he’d been born two hundred years ago, when the docks were the gateway to Zion and the first Mormon missionaries landed in Liverpool. He would like to wind back time and begin his pioneer journey with baptism in the River Mersey. Imagine crossing the sea to America and embarking on the thousand-mile trek to Utah! The pioneers made enormous sacrifices and they endured tremendous trials—their persistence and faith will surely guarantee their exaltation in the highest degree of heaven, the Celestial Kingdom. His own life has been disappointingly easy by comparison. He was baptized indoors, and although the water in the font was lukewarm because the heating wasn’t working properly and he shivered a bit as he changed out of his wet clothes, it was certainly no hardship. There was a party afterward with a big cake that said, “Happy 8th Birthday—Welcome Ian!” in white chocolate buttons and he felt as if his life had finally started, as if everything up to that point had been just a practice, a dry run for the moment when he would begin playing for keeps. He has been fortunate—blessed, in fact. He has barely suffered at all. He has a happy marriage, four children, a satisfactory job, and, for just over a year, he has served the Church in his role as Bishop of the local congregation, an enormous responsibility.
He was called to be Bishop on Father’s Day. After he took his place on the stand, behind the pulpit, the Primary children sang a song about fathers and family with a special second verse addressed entirely to the Bishop—to him. As he listened to their singing, Ian made a silent promise always to be there for the Primary children and their families. Since that time there have been frequent opportunities to make small sacrifices, such as the ones he has made today. It’s a shame to have missed Jacob’s birthday breakfast and party, but these things don’t begin to compare to the things the pioneers gave up. The gospel is all about serving people, it’s what Jesus would do if he were here; Sister Anderson needed help and as one of His representatives on Earth, Ian gave it.
Claire finds sacrifice difficult, she often needs a little encouragement—next time he sees one of those retro “Keep Calm and Carry On” posters, he’ll buy one and stick it on the fridge. It’d be good if they
also made posters with General Kitchener pointing, “Your Husband Needs You!”—she could do with one of those, too! It’s for Claire’s sake that he tries to offset each small sacrifice by making the most of every minute he has at home. One of the apostles died a couple of years ago and in his obituary it said that although he was too busy to spend time with his children either before or after dinner, he used every mealtime wisely, talking about the gospel. It made Ian realize he had been wasting teaching opportunities, and he resolved to make mealtimes an occasion for both physical and spiritual feasting. It’s good to chat about gospel-related matters at the table instead of who said what at school, or the latest episode of whatever it is the children watch on television.
They were having a family discussion about the importance of tithing last Sunday when the telephone rang. Ian answered it.
“Bishop Bradley!” exclaimed the voice at the other end.
“Hello, President Carmichael.” Ian stepped out of the dining room and into the living room. “How are you?”
“I’m fantastic, Bishop!”
President Carmichael is always fantastic. His inability to be anything else cheers Ian.
“What can I do for you, President?”
“There’s going to be a special missionary meeting on Saturday at the Stake Center.”
“This Saturday?”
“Yes.”
Ian’s response—“I’ll be there, President”—was automatic. Back in the dining room, he changed the subject of his discourse. “Who knows what obedience is?” he asked. Issy’s hand shot up like a steeple and she held her breath in anticipation of being selected, something she’d learned during her first week of school. “Yes, Issy.”