The Things We Learn When We're Dead

by Charlie Laidlaw

  Later that afternoon they lifted the whale with a big crane onto a large lorry, then covered it with a tarpaulin, and took it away. The next week, the local newspaper put a picture of the whale on its front page. In the background, almost invisible among the crowd, were Lorna and Suzie: Suzie looking pert and demure, and Lorna in her baggy jeans looking like a refugee.

  * * *

  Her dad had an old record player and he’d sometimes dig it out from the living room cupboard, plug it in, and play some of the classics, as he termed them. The Beatles. The Stones. It’s not just the music, he would say, eyes dimly remembering a past where a younger dad might be gyrating on a dancefloor, can of beer in one hand and a girl on the other. Her mother? Or an even younger dad with who-knows-what girl. He was a crap dancer. Dads shouldn’t be allowed to dance, she would think, but he wasn’t playing records: he was replaying memories from a time when she didn’t exist. Lorna couldn’t imagine him as a young man, and he didn’t have any photographs of himself from long ago, or he said he didn’t. Lorna therefore had to imagine him as he might have been: tall and chunky, not yet a wizard, and with everything in front of him, including her. But she soon gave up trying to reconstruct him as he might have been.

  During her painting phase, her mum painted a picture of Lorna, a watercolour on a sheet of A4 paper. Her idea was to paint it from a photograph taken on their Norfolk holiday. Lorna was standing with her back to a river and her mother made her stand on a riverbank for ages, her chin tilted to an afternoon sun, before she clicked the camera. Then, back at home, she changed her mind about wanting to paint her from the photograph and made Lorna stand for ages and ages in the living room, in the same pose, peering intently over her easel, sometimes with a paintbrush in her mouth, trying hard to appear like a real artist like Rembrandt (whom she once compared herself to, eliciting quizzical looks between Lorna and her dad). She didn’t understand why, if her mum had taken a photo with a camera, she now needed to pose for hours in the living room. Her mum finally put down her paintbrush with a satisfied flourish and turned the easel around.

  The finished picture horrified Lorna. She’d always thought of herself as pretty in a tall and gangly way, but the picture she was presented with depicted some sort of Rosewell alien, with a large forehead, big eyes, and colourless lips. At first, Lorna tried to laugh it off, knowing her mum was utterly shit at painting. Then another thought dawned: maybe she wasn’t that bad at painting, and this was how she saw her daughter. Maybe, God forbid, this was how she actually looked. Lorna stood in front of the bathroom mirror and held up the painting next to her face, willing the two to be different. To Lorna’s horror they weren’t that dissimilar: not only was she an alien, but her mum thought so too. She could have painted me differently, she thought, glossed over my faults, but she hadn’t. Did that mean she didn’t love me, and didn’t care what I would feel? Or that she did love me, and was simply telling the truth? Her mum often said she always should tell the truth and that God didn’t like fibbers. (This didn’t make a huge amount of sense because earlier that week she’d told Mrs McIntyre, who they’d met in the street, how much she liked her new dress, and later told Lorna how horrid it was. It therefore seemed that telling fibs was also a nice thing to do. To have told Mrs McIntyre that her dress was disgusting wouldn’t have been nice, even though it was the truth.)

  Lorna didn’t keep her mother’s picture but, just in case, still didn’t like having her photograph taken. She had come to see people as they were, and no longer tried to imagine what they might once have looked like.

  * * *

  Her anger with Suzie dissipated during the day to be replaced by a nagging worry about that evening, with Joe meeting Suzie for the first time and the dangers that entailed, and the larger worry about Joe himself. Would he stay or would he go? No, he would go; like her, he had lofty ambitions. And if – when – he went back to Australia, would she go with him? What then for all her well-laid plans? Could she put Joe above all of them, whatever they now were?

  During the day she told Mike that she’d soon be going to Greece for a few days and would tell him the dates as soon as she knew, a piece of information that immediately became common currency among the rest of the staff, and it seemed by their demeanour and comments that Little Miss Clever was now not only too good for the likes of them, but suddenly rich as well. Her drive past in the Porsche had not gone unnoticed.

  ‘Never been to Greece,’ was Maggie’s comment, as if it was a strange planet. ‘Costa del Sol’s where I go. In the summer, like when you’re supposed to,’ she added pointedly, as Lorna fruitlessly searched the HappyMart’s limited clothing range for anything that might be useful, to an endless soundtrack of Christmas songs, from the religious to the secular, from the St Paul’s Choir singing ‘Silent Night’ to Slade belting out ‘Merry Christmas Everybody’. Again Lorna was struck by how this seemed to lift the others’ moods. Maggie whistled along to Bing Crosby’s ‘White Christmas’, and Gosia hummed to Aled Jones’ ‘Walking In The Air’, hour after bloody hour, while Lorna tried to blot out the racket with a stream of half-formed doubts and worries.

  She was bad tempered and weary when she arrived back at the flat to find Suzie sprawled on their sofa wearing the shortest of low-cut red dresses. ‘Nice day at the office, dear?’ she enquired solicitously.

  ‘Don’t ask,’ said Lorna, who had decided not to repeat that morning’s argument. Right then, there were more pressing things to discuss. ‘Joe’s going to be here in a minute,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, I know that, sweetie. And to mark the occasion, I’m going to cook Greek. To get you in the mood, as it were, for your holiday.’

  She made it sound as crazy as Maggie had earlier. Lorna advanced towards her friend. ‘So absolutely no making eyes at him, Suze, okay? No giving him ideas, all right?’

  ‘Have I ever ...?’

  ‘Yes, Suze, you have. Maybe not intentionally, but yes.’

  ‘As if,’ said Suzie and wiggled her bottom. Lorna saw that the shortest-of-shortest red dresses also had a slit up one side, accentuating the length of her legs and the apparent fact that she wasn’t wearing underwear. ‘Moi?’

  Lorna sighed and shook her head. ‘Please, Suzie.’

  ‘Don’t worry, babe, I’ll behave.’ Suzie grinned like a Cheshire cat, then stopped smiling. ‘But are you sure everything’s OK?’

  ‘You asked me that this morning.’

  ‘And I didn’t get an answer.’

  ‘No secrets, Suze. Scout’s honour.’ Lorna tried to mimic a Baden-Powell salute, feeling slightly queasy at Joe’s imminent arrival and Suzie’s lack of clothing. She caught sight of herself in the mirror: a slightly-stained yellow polo shirt with the HappyMart logo on one breast, and black trousers, also stained. She also looked tired, her hair lank and needed washing – and Joe would be here any minute. Did she have time for a shower? Could Suzie, dressed like that, be trusted alone with him? Could Joe be trusted with her?

  Suzie looked at her thoughtfully then, twirling round to sit properly on the sofa, planted both feet on the carpet and smoothed down her dress. ‘Anyway, to change the subject, it’s maybe time for me to share my little secret with you.’

  Lorna raised her eyebrows.

  ‘A rather big, delicious secret,’ said Suzie more loudly, biting her lip and looking worried. ‘I should perhaps have told you earlier.’ Lorna saw that Suzie seemed to be blushing. ‘It’s just that, well ... I didn’t know how you’d react, sweetie.’

  ‘React? Told me what earlier?’ asked Lorna. ‘Secrecy, Suze, doesn’t suit you. You aren’t programmed for secrecy. Don’t worry, I’ll get it.’

  It was the doorbell and Joe was standing on the doorstep, a bottle of wine in one hand. Beside him, looking sheepish, was Austin Bird. Alarmingly, he had a large suitcase in his hand.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ asked Lorna.

  ‘You invited me,’ said Joe, raising a smile.

  ‘Not you, him.’
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  ‘Actually, sweetie,’ said Suzie from behind. ‘He’s my little secret.’

  Nightmare

  ‘I know I should have told you ...’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We didn’t know what you’d say ...’

  ‘What!’

  They were in the kitchen, door firmly closed and Lorna, feathers ruffled, was screeching like a demented crow. Her only coherent thought was that this couldn’t be happening. She had somehow entered a parallel universe where the utterly improbable was somehow reasonable.

  ‘He wasn’t supposed to get here until tomorrow. I was going to tell you this evening ...’

  ‘What!’

  ‘I swear I didn’t know he was going to be here tonight ...’

  Lorna took several deep breaths. ‘Suzie, what the fuck is going on?’

  ‘Listen, I only found out this afternoon that he was going to be early.’

  ‘Then you could have bloody told me!’

  ‘I was going to tell you, sweetie.’

  The initial shock of seeing Austin Bird, large as life in her flat had passed. Lorna was now thinking instead about his luggage.

  ‘You know I’ve always fancied him,’ said Suzie, looking as apologetic as she could ever look.

  ‘You still should have told me! Christ, Suzie! You’re supposed to be my friend.’

  ‘We didn’t know how you’d react.’

  Lorna snorted. ‘We!’ She took several more deep breaths. ‘Probably a bit like this.’

  ‘Exactly. Look, I was just on the point of telling you. How the hell was I supposed to know he was going to turn up early?’ Suzie flicked her hair, making it clear that none of the nightmare was her fault.

  ‘You could have phoned me at the shop.’

  ‘I thought I’d have time to tell you face to face.’

  ‘He’s got a suitcase,’ said Lorna, with her lank hair and stained HappyMart polo shirt, and stared angrily at Suzie with her perfect hair, immaculate make-up, and not-quite dress.

  ‘Well, aren’t you the perceptive one?’

  ‘Suzie, what the fuck is going on?’ she said, then realised she’d asked exactly the same question only moments before.

  ‘I’ve asked him to stay for a couple of days,’ said Suzie. ‘Oh, come on, petal! In the privacy of my own bedroom, I can do whatever I like. With whoever I like, OK?’

  Lorna said nothing, her mouth in a thin line.

  ‘Look, Austin was working in London and we hitched up during a break in filming. We’ve been pretty much together ever since. Does that answer your question?’

  ‘No. Someone should have told me. Actually, not someone. You.’

  ‘You’d only have thought that he was using me to get at you.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I didn’t know what to think! OK, at first I was worried that he might still harbour brutish thoughts about you. However, after shagging his brains out for a few weeks, I realised he did seem to actually like me. Not you, sweetie. The Lovebirds era is finally at an end, believe me.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Yes, Lorna.’

  ‘God, this is a bloody nightmare!’

  ‘Then wake up from it, sweetie. And please don’t start screaming again.’

  Lorna had lit a cigarette without bothering to open a window, then angrily stubbed it out. ‘I’m going for a shower,’ she announced.

  * * *

  Suzie had cooked lots of olives and salad and feta cheese and lamb but, thankfully, no squid. But, with Austin there, it simply reminded Lorna of Leo and the upset he had caused. She sensed that Austin was thinking much the same thing, although he did repeatedly apologise for his unexpected appearance. He also explained that he was going to be on secondment to an engineering firm, translating theory into practice. Books and lectures can only teach you so much, he said. The London firm he was temporarily attached to had given him the chance to work on different projects. That way, he said, you get experience of different things and see what you’re best suited for. He would be in Edinburgh for a few weeks in the spring on a land reclamation project; a derelict site was being cleared to make way for high-rise flats for the upwardly mobile. A deprived part of Edinburgh was being revived. After that, it was back to Bristol for his final exams. He was still in the same flat, although he didn’t describe it as bijou anymore.

  Lorna said virtually nothing to his monologue. Suzie mostly studied her plate. Joe simply looked bewildered.

  By accident or design, the washing up was left to Lorna and Austin. Suzie had dragged off Joe to the living room to be interrogated. Lorna stacked dishes beside the sink, not knowing what to say, feeling a pulse of anger and struggling to control it.

  ‘Suzie was supposed to have told you about us,’ said Austin apologetically.

  Lorna turned the tap off. She could hear voices from the living room. ‘Your actress friend,’ she replied, ‘sometimes forgets to tell people anything.’

  ‘It’ll only be for a couple of days,’ said Austin. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘You’ve got a rather large suitcase for a couple of days.’

  ‘I’m going back to Bristol for New Year.’

  Lorna had been out-manoeuvred, and knew it, but refused to meet his eye. She pushed her hands into warm water and extracted a serving spoon, which she elaborately washed. Having Austin in her flat made no sense. For a moment she felt herself transported back to a time when she was the centre of his life. Then, despite herself, she felt guilty, remembering terse messages on his phone. ‘Somebody should have bloody told me.’ She scrubbed at a pan and set it on the draining board.

  Austin was busy drying another saucepan; frowning, just like she remembered when they were in class and he had a maths question to solve. ‘Leo says hi,’ he said, also not meeting her eye. ‘He sends regards or love, whichever is appropriate.’

  ‘Well, that’s nice to know.’ Lorna kept her eyes fixed on the sink, her hands deep underwater.

  He was hard at work on the pan, burnishing it to a shine, still not looking at her. ‘It’s because of me,’ he finally said, ‘that he never got in contact with you.’

  ‘I’d sort of guessed.’ Lorna kept all inflection from her voice.

  ‘He knew I was furious and didn’t want to make things worse. At the time we were sharing a flat. Well, you know we were. Also,’ said Austin, finally looking at her, ‘he didn’t know if you’d be pleased to hear from him. He thought it might just have been a holiday fling.’ He was almost babbling, getting everything out in the open.

  Lorna dried her hands, framing an answer. ‘I have nothing to apologise for,’ she said slowly and deliberately, the pulse of anger forming a rhythmic beat in her temples.

  ‘But I do,’ said Austin. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Lorna said nothing, her anger turning to a burning headache.

  ‘He’s in Spain, in case you’re interested. He finally said no to his father. Dropped out to set up a jet-ski business. His dad’s livid.’ She thought back to Greece and how neither Austin nor Leo had wanted to go home, and then Austin answered a question she hadn’t asked. ‘He still talks about you, now we’re on speaking terms again. I think he regrets not picking up the phone.’

  ‘It doesn’t really matter now, does it?’ She dried her hands on a dishtowel which she then threw onto the table, then turned to face him, hands on hips. ‘Austin, you behaved like a complete bastard.’

  ‘Lorna ...’

  ‘An utter shit!’

  He was looking at the floor. ‘I really like her, Lorna, although I haven’t a clue why she likes me.’ He frowned again, the little boy trying to solve a maths riddle. ‘I can’t go on apologising forever.’

  ‘So you finally gave up the Lorna habit?’

  He looked up, eyes bright. ‘That’s exactly what it was, a habit. Like those,’ he said, nodding at the kitchen table on which was a packet of Lorna’s cigarettes. ‘I kicked the Lorna habit.’

  ‘Do you know what, Austin? I
don’t really want to continue this conversation. I’ve got a headache and I’m going to bed.’

  She went to her bedroom and, opening a window, smoked a cigarette, her elbows on the windowsill, her thoughts miles away. Why the hell hadn’t Suzie told her about Austin? Christ, she’d nearly had a heart attack when she’d opened the front door. And Joe was still in the living room and she could hear his laughter through the wall. What the bloody hell was so funny? She threw her cigarette butt out the window and watched its parabola to the pavement below, then brushed her teeth and went to bed. From the living room, Joe was still laughing. She now had the uncomfortable thought that they might be laughing at her, regaling Joe with stories of their youth, and of the stupid things she’d said and done. I was the person she first had sex with, she imagined Austin telling Joe. And that beach bar of Nico’s? Well, she’s had sex on the beach there as well. No, not with me, but with a friend of mine she’d only just met. She had to prevent herself from creeping along the corridor and listening at the door. In any case, their flat had creaking floorboards that would have betrayed her. Instead, she lay in bed seething, her headache blossoming to a sharp peak before gradually subsiding. Joe eventually slid in beside her after what may have been minutes but seemed like hours and put his arms around her. ‘Well, that went well,’ he said.

  Choice

  The offices of Wilson, MacGraw & Hamilton occupied a corner site in Charlotte Square, Edinburgh’s most prestigious business address, although it merely whispered its splendour with a small brass plate, polished to a burnished gleam. Lorna walked slowly round the square, smoking a last cigarette, composing herself. Then, squaring her shoulders and smoothing down her blue trouser suit, a special purchase for the occasion, she pushed open the door.

  On the reception desk was a large bowl of exotic white flowers. The receptionist, accentless and beautiful, welcomed her with icy civility. A grandfather clock ticked in an alcove and on the wall behind her were other clocks in burnished aluminium telling her the time in Edinburgh, Mumbai, New York, and Sydney. At her feet was a briefcase, another special purchase, containing a writing pad, pen, several copies of her CV, paper tissues, and a jumbo bar of chocolate, half eaten. She looked around at the leather sofas, the intricate silk curtains at the windows; the understated power and privilege that pervaded every surface, piece of furniture and ornament, and which extended to the glacially exquisite receptionist who saw Lorna looking over and smiled professionally. Lorna closed her eyes and wondered if she was selling her soul to the devil. But she had to qualify, she reminded herself: obtaining a law degree wasn’t the end of the process. She had two years as a trainee ahead, and only then could she call herself a solicitor. And where better, she’d told herself over and over, than here – Scotland’s premier legal practice, which would sit well on her CV and open other doors. Perhaps then she could reclaim her soul from Satan supposing, of course, that the public-school toffs who ran the place gave her that chance.