by Carys Bray
“Amen.” Dad opened his eyes. “So, how are you?”
“Fine.”
“How’s school going?”
“Fine.”
Dad didn’t respond but Al was wise to the silence. He knew not to jump into the pause with both feet and reveal something. He waited it out while the clock ticked and the tennis ball bristled his armpit. “Think you can elaborate on ‘fine’?”
“Not really.” The tennis ball’s furry nylon coating was beginning to make him sweat.
“How’s your testimony?” Dad leaned forward, resting an elbow on each of his knees, pushing his palms together like a praying mantis.
“Fine.”
Dad frowned and Al realized he’d said too many “fines.”
“How do you feel about Joseph Smith?”
“Fine.” A laugh quivered in his windpipe and he covered it with a cough. “Good. Yeah, good.”
“You know Joseph Smith was only a little older than you when he had the First Vision? How does that make you feel?”
Al pretended to consider the question. “Well …” he said, trying to sound thoughtful.
“Pretty impressive for a young boy, wasn’t it? Especially when you think of what so many fourteen-year-olds are up to nowadays.” Dad sighed and leaned back in the chair.
“Did you know Steven Gerrard had a tryout with Man U when he was fourteen, Dad?”
“Everything’s OK at school? You’ve had a good first week back?”
Al nodded, concentrating on his armpit, which had launched into a series of clenching spasms.
“Anything you’d like to say to me? No? Well, I’d like to share my testimony with you.”
Al looked at the carpet as Dad bore testimony of the truth of the gospel. He said it was the best thing in his life, a shining beacon in the darkness, and he didn’t know where he’d be without it. Al knew where he’d be without it—playing football in the garden.
“I’ll offer the closing prayer, then,” Dad said finally. During the prayer Al stared at the framed cross-stitch picture above the mantelpiece: “Families Are Forever”; or in other words, “You’ll Never Escape.”
After he had finished praying, Dad stood and extended his right hand. Al tried to grasp it with his arm pressed flat to his side, but Dad insisted on a hearty up-and-down shake, which made the ball pop out of his armpit and drop to the floor, where it bounced several times.
“Would you believe me if I said it was a hairball?”
“It’s not exactly difficult to remember the Sabbath day and keep it holy.” Dad picked up the ball and tried to stuff it into the pocket of his trousers. “Off you go.”
Al walked around the garden for a bit, thinking of other things he could have said when the ball fell out of his shirt. Things like, “My balls just dropped.” He sniggered to himself and wished Matty was there to share the joke. He thought about fetching a proper football from the shed, but decided against it, kicking a few of the early fallen apples against the wall instead.
He was about to head indoors when Issy appeared. She was giggling. She lifted the back of her Sunday dress and produced the tennis ball.
“How’d you get that?”
“Daddy left it on the chair after my interview. He went upstairs to look for Zippy.”
“So you nicked it and stuffed it down your knickers? High-five!” They smacked hands and he gave the ball a precautionary wipe with his shirt tail. “Go and stand over there, near the wall. I’m going to see if I can kick it right at you. You can dodge, but you mustn’t move until the ball’s left the ground, OK?”
He chipped the ball with the inside and then the outside of each foot while she chattered as she dodged shots and retrieved for him. Someone in her class had done a wee on the floor during their first-ever PE lesson, she’d been talking about it all week, and he half-listened while he refined his touch, wishing he had a goal so he could practice free kicks properly. Neither of them noticed Dad watching from the kitchen door.
“Bring the ball here.”
Issy picked it up and carried it to Dad.
“I’ve already told you once today,” he said. “I shouldn’t have to tell you again. Alma, no football training for you this week.”
Al kicked the ground and dislodged a tuft of grass. Dad wouldn’t be happy until he’d trussed him up and sacrificed every last bit of him, like bloody Abraham.
Issy rushed over and wrapped her arms around his leg in a consoling hug, but he shook her off and shoved her back toward Dad.
“It wasn’t me. It was her,” he said.
She stumbled when he shoved her and Dad picked her up, as if she was in danger and needed protecting. “You’re accountable for your own actions, Alma,” he said. “You didn’t have to break the Sabbath. It was your choice and you can accept the consequences.”
Issy didn’t look back as Dad carried her into the kitchen. If she had, Al would have mouthed “Sorry,” or at least winked. That’s what he likes to think, anyway.
It’d been shitty to snitch on her. He’ll always regret it. It’ll stick with him in the same way missed penalties and own goals stick with footballers. He knows it serves him right, he deserves it, just like Gerrard deserves to remember the penalty he missed at Blackburn last season.
PENALTY FOR LIVERPOOL!
The staff in the betting shop stop what they’re doing and watch as the Everton players pantomime indignation and the ref points to the spot, blowing his whistle to shut them up. Kuyt is going to take it. He never misses, he’s bound to score, and with Everton down to ten men, the floodgates are sure to open for an epic Pool win. Al wills Kuyt to do it. He can barely look as the Dutchman takes a run-up, then kicks the ball. Crap. It’s a rubbish penalty, a pathetic miss, straight at the goalie. Al could have done better himself—come on, Liverpool—he can’t believe they’re throwing it all away on the day he’s finally watching them play in real time and he suddenly wonders whether they’d do better if he wasn’t watching, if he’s actually jinxing it ’cause he shouldn’t be standing outside the betting shop, he should be cleaning up pee but he’s run away, like Jonah. Perhaps if he goes back and does what he’s supposed to do, Liverpool will win.
He heads up Queens Drive again, stroking his hand over the roll of cash in his hoodie pocket, thinking about all the things he could buy.
When he reaches the chapel he jogs down the side of the building and into the parking lot so he can sneak through the back door. He hurries along the corridor, opens the door to the hall, and there’s Dad, pushing a massive two-sectioned broom along the waxy floor. The broom is open like a giant mouth and its jaws are stuffed with dust bunnies and old bits of dried-up food. Dad ignores him, so he stands next to the stage for a bit, looking around, trying to pretend he’s there for a reason. Eventually he turns and heads for the door.
“Where have you been?” Dad’s voice fills the echoing space.
“Nowhere.”
“Have you been playing football?”
“No.”
“Alma, you’ve got dirt all over your trousers.” He looks down. Shit.
“Don’t you think your mum’s got enough to worry about at the moment without having to do extra washing because you can’t do as you’re told? It wouldn’t hurt for you to think of someone else first, would it?”
Dad turns to push the broom along the next section of floor and Al wants to say it wouldn’t hurt for him to think of someone else first either, but although the words are straining at the gate of his mouth, he can’t let them go.
Dad pretends he has to do all this stuff ’cause he’s the Bishop, but he does it ’cause he wants to. He’s got a choice—he’s an adult. He goes to meetings all the time and he enjoys it, he stays behind after church for hours and he likes it—it probably makes him feel important when everyone lines up outside his office to tell him their problems and ask for help. He could have canceled his meetings when Issy died, he could have told everyone he was taking a few weeks off, but he wants them to
think he’s a hero, carrying on in the face of adversity. He can’t even do easy things to cheer Mum up.
When the hearse arrived last Saturday afternoon Dad was angry. He waited until the men had left Issy’s coffin in the living room and then he started right in, he didn’t even bother to close the door, so Al eavesdropped from the landing.
“We don’t do this, Claire.”
“Don’t tell me what ‘we’ do.”
“Well, we don’t.”
“I want to.”
“We concentrate on the resurrection. That’s why we don’t have crosses everywhere. I shouldn’t have to tell you, you know this—the empty tomb, that’s what we think about, not the body left behind.”
“Stop telling me what to do.”
“I’m not, I’m trying to explain—”
“Is there something in the Handbook about not doing it?”
“No, I don’t think so, I just think—”
“Then you can’t tell me not to.”
“You didn’t even ask what I thought. And what about the children?”
When Mum started talking again Al had to concentrate ’cause her voice was quiet.
“I never ask for anything, ever.” She sounded like a bag of wasps. “But I’m asking for this. Actually, Ian, I’m not even asking.”
Dad sucked it up and Issy stayed in the front room until the funeral. Jacob didn’t seem to mind but Zippy spent the whole weekend upstairs sulking. Al hadn’t been at all sure what to make of it. Part of him wanted to laugh because it was so weird. He actually made a little chuckle as he watched the men carry the coffin through the front door from his vantage point on the landing, but it was the kind of chuckle you do when you’re hunting for a reaction and you can’t find the right one. The coffin had been on a wheelie stand and there was a sort of tablecloth thing dangling over it, like a skirt. It’d looked like something a magician would use, a levitating prop, or one of those platforms ladies lie on before they’re sawn in half.
Dad stops pushing the broom and tucks his tie into a gap between his shirt buttons. “There’ll be a dustpan somewhere in the kitchen. Do you think you can go and get it without doing another disappearing act?”
He fetches the dustpan and works alongside Dad, sweeping up little piles of muck and depositing them in a trash bag. When the whole hall has been swept clean, they start to unstack the chairs that line the walls at each end. There will be so many people at Conference that the screen between the chapel and the hall will be opened and latecomers will have to listen to the prophet from the basketball court.
They’re just finishing up when President Carmichael pokes his head round one of the doors. “Bishop Bradley and Alma,” he calls. “How are you?”
“Fine, thank you, President,” Dad replies. “How are you?”
“Fantastic!”
Al tries to catch Dad’s eye to share the joke, but he won’t join in.
“Can I borrow Alma for a moment, Bishop?”
“Be my guest,” Dad says.
Great. Another interview. That’s all Al needs. President Carmichael waves him through the door and ushers him down the corridor to his office. Even though President Carmichael doesn’t live in Liverpool, his office is here, next door to the Liverpool Bishop’s office but bigger, nicer. The desk is chunky and the chairs are soft.
“Sit down, sit down.”
President Carmichael sits in the leather swivel chair behind the desk. On the wall above his head are three framed pictures: Joseph Smith looking windswept and poncey; the prophet—way younger than he is in real life; and Jesus with hair like Cheryl Cole in the L’Oréal ad.
“How are things with you, Alma?”
“Fine.”
President Carmichael grins, as if he’s used to doing interviews where people say “Fine” to every question. He taps his hands on the desk for a moment, then reaches into his suit pocket. He gets his phone out and flicks a finger across the screen.
“I don’t know many lads who’d happily spend their Saturday afternoon cleaning.”
“Neither do I.”
President Carmichael laughs and holds up the phone.
“Now it’s time for the classified football results,” he says, and Al can tell he’s about to read the score like James Alexander Gordon on the radio. “Saturday the first of October, Barclays Premier League: Everton zero, Liverpool two.” He turns his phone off and puts it back in his pocket. “I thought you’d like to know. Do you think I’ve got a future on Radio 5?” He opens a drawer in his desk, digs around, and produces a four-finger KitKat.
“There you go.”
“Thanks.” Al picks up the chocolate. He knew Liverpool would win if he came back.
“Go on. I bet you’re starving, boys are always starving—mine are, anyway. What’re you going to do during the Relief Society session of Conference?” Al’s mouth is full. He shrugs.
“Is Jacob coming along with your mum? You can wait here together until the Relief Society session’s finished, if you like. Save you from having to watch girls’ stuff. Me and your dad are presiding, but there’s no need for you and Jacob to be there. I’ve got The Princess Bride on my laptop, it’s got to be better than listening to old ladies, hasn’t it?”
President Carmichael is a real person, that’s why people like him—Dad would never acknowledge that anything to do with church could be the tiniest bit boring. Al stuffs the last stick of KitKat into his mouth, wads up the wrapper, and goes to put it in his hoodie pocket. Then he remembers the money and keeps hold of the paper. He’s seen The Princess Bride a billion times, so has Jacob, they’ve seen it so many times they can quote parts of it to each other. It’s a bit babyish, but it’s definitely better than watching the Relief Society Conference or hanging around in the corridor until it finishes.
“Be good to your parents, eh? All this … everything … it’s hard for them. Come on, let’s find some hymnbooks to go on the extra chairs in the hall; some people like to sing along with the Tabernacle Choir.”
Al feels a rush of cheerfulness as they leave the office; he isn’t in trouble, Liverpool won, and the inside of his mouth is sticky with chocolate. He gives President Carmichael a burst of his best Tabernacle Choir impersonation. “Laaaaaaaa, la, la, la.”
To his surprise, President Carmichael joins in and they head down the corridor together warbling like a pair of X Factor rejects.
HE HAS TO sit with the family during Conference. Mum calls it “sitting as a family” and she makes a big deal of it ’cause Dad usually sits up on the stand during church meetings. Al ends up right in the middle, squeezed between Jacob and Zippy.
It’s getting dark outside and the lights in the chapel and hall have been switched off so everyone can concentrate on the massive screen. The chapel is full and people are sitting on the first couple of rows of chairs in the hall; tomorrow the hall will be full too ’cause more people come to the Sunday sessions of Conference.
“Alma, take your hoodie off. It’s about to start.”
Al lifts the hoodie over his head and bundles it into his lap. An American announcer welcomes everyone and the camera pans over Temple Square in Salt Lake City, which always looks sunny and sparkly clean. Then the Tabernacle Choir start to sing “The Morning Breaks,” the song they always sing at this session of General Conference. Dad gets his hymnbook out to join in, and the camera switches to show thousands of people sitting in the Conference Center. They aren’t singing, they’re listening to the choir, but Dad doesn’t notice, or perhaps he doesn’t care. “Lo, Zion’s standard is unfurled!” he sings.
Jacob tugs Al’s sleeve. “I’m Miracle Max,” he hisses.
“What?”
“I’m Miracle Max from The Princess Bride.”
“Oh, right.”
“Doing miracles is what I do,” Jacob whispers, trying his best to sound like the crazy old man from the movie.
Al sniggers. “OK,” he says. “In that case, I’m Inigo Montoya. You killed my father, prep
are to die.” He delivers the line in his best Spanish accent to make Jacob laugh.
“Shush.” Zippy pokes him. “Don’t be immature.”
He’d rather be immature than super-holy. Zippy probably thinks the prophet will say something amazing once the choir’s stopped singing, something like “Get ready for the Second Coming … tomorrow!” instead of his usual snore-ful stories.
He pokes Zippy back. Dad frowns and shakes his head, but he doesn’t stop singing.
“The dawning of a brighter day, the dawning of a brighter day.” Mum isn’t singing, she’s just staring straight ahead. She looks like she’s been whacked in the face by a football, sort of concussed. Al twists the hoodie bundle in his lap until he can feel the roll of cash through the zip-up pocket. Maybe the prophet will say something amazing, something so bloody brilliant and wonderful that it will make everything better. If the Second Coming is just around the corner it’ll be followed by the Millennium and then Issy will come back … if it’s true. He watches Jacob rest his hand on Mum’s lap; she doesn’t seem to notice, and as the song slows to its conclusion and Dad’s voice gets louder—“Thus Zion’s light is bursting forth, to bring her ransomed children home”—Mum closes her eyes. She does it in such a deliberate way, it’s as if she’s closed her ears too and it’s like she’s not sitting with them anymore.
The opening prayer begins, and although he usually keeps his eyes open, Al squeezes them shut ’cause he feels like he did when Kuyt stepped up to take the penalty earlier; he’s willing something good to happen but he can hardly stand to look.
– 11 –
Waiting
Claire can bear to be up only when they are out. She hides under the warm puff of Issy’s duvet, eyes squeezed shut as Ian’s panicky voice floats up the stairs.
“Have you got your lunch, Zipporah? I made some sandwiches. They’re on the side in the kitchen. Well, I didn’t know you don’t like tuna. Do you need some bus money? Sorry, it’s all the change I’ve got. Can’t you get off a stop early? Jacob, come on, hurry up. Where’s your helmet, Alma? Don’t be silly—you’ll look a lot worse with your brains on the road. Jacob, come on.”