A fitting end for Mikachu, perhaps. If only Tom had been a clown, a great man, then this death could have had some dramatic irony. But in the alternative version of my life he was a building surveyor, working out in the sun, squinting up at high roofs, filling out reports in his small office with the picture of his family on his desk. And there’s no meaning, perverse or otherwise, in this end.
That’s not to say there wasn’t happiness before we got here. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that Tom made me happy when I met him. I went back to my small bedroom in my parents’ house in Bourne End when the clinic pronounced me cured, and I didn’t go far. I used to walk down to the café – it’s a florist’s now, but back then it was a very hip place to be, with a jukebox and black and white lino on the floor – and spend an hour over a cup of tea. Tom would come in with his mates from work and put ‘Tears of a Clown’ on the jukebox. He loved Smokey Robinson, all that Motown music. He had energy. He’d dance along, and then he started asking me to dance with him right in the middle of the café. I always said no, dreading that he’d make me or that he’d stop asking. But he never did stop asking, until one day he stayed behind deliberately after his break, waited until the café was empty apart from us two, and told me I had to dance, or I’d break his heart.
So, I did.
He said he could see I was sad. He said he’d make me smile again. He wanted to take care of me and he meant it. Being taken care of, that’s a wonderful thing, until you realise you can’t take care of yourself anymore. And then it’s the worst thing you ever signed up for. By the time I’d had his children I was tied to Bourne End, and all my dreams of escape followed that first baby, trickling down my legs into the gutter and crying softly in my ear at night.
* * *
“Violet,” said God, on that fateful moment last year after Tom had been diagnosed. “Violet, wake up. Meet me in the park in five minutes. Have a quick wee before you leave the house, but don’t worry about your hair.”
I did as I was told. You don’t argue with God. At least, I don’t, not after eight years of Sunday school and a run-in with nunhood.
In the park, in the dark, I trembled. I hugged my dressing gown over my chest as I made my way to the playground, feeling the damp soak through my sheepskin slippers. God was waiting for me on the climbing frame, the red and blue one with the slide suitable for five-to eight-year-olds. He was throwing conkers down it, which was quite an achievement since it was late spring. It’s hard to say what he looked like. Old and venerable are the words that come to mind, but that kind of person doesn’t sit on the top of climbing frames so there must have been something young and carefree about him too.
“I don’t think much of this place,” he said. I thought about pointing out that everything, including the playground, was made to his design but he gave me such a stare that I didn’t bother. Thinking about it now, I’m sure he read my thoughts so there was no point in saying it anyway. I stood there, waiting for him to tell me what he wanted with me – I never thought to ask. It’s harder to have a conversation with God than you might imagine.
He snapped his fingers, and in a blink we were on a desert island, a proper one with soft white sand and a translucent sea, and palm trees curving overhead providing shade from the glorious sunshine.
“Is this heaven?” I asked him.
“It’s the Maldives,” he said. “It’s the closest most people get to heaven, to be honest. There’s an excellent hotel on stilts just along the beach.” His voice reminded me of Alan Whicker, a little bit. “Violet, it’s a rare person whom I choose to give answers to, but it seems to me that you could do with some hands-on guidance and in your case I’m not against providing it.”
“Thanks,” I said. I could feel sand irritating the bunion in my right sheepskin slipper, and my dressing gown was far too hot but I didn’t dare strip off down to my nightie in front of him.
“It’s like this.” He sat down and pressed his fingers into the sand. “Your life has been a test.”
“A test?”
“A series of hoops to jump through, if you like. Once in a while I take a direct interest in a human’s life. I couldn’t say for sure how I pick ’em – someone leaps out of the crowd even though they look as ordinary as the next person. It’s not about shape or size or even about whether they bother to believe in me or not, but I find myself watching them. And sometimes I send certain events their way just to see what they’ll do. How they’ll react. You’ve been one of those people, Violet. Ever since I heard you saying ‘The Lord’s Prayer’ at Sunday School. You made it sound like a little sing-song tune of love; it reminded me of Neil Sedaka’s 'Carol' a bit. I’ve always been fond of that one.”
“Me too,” I said. I sat down next to him and he started scooping sand over my legs until my slippers disappeared under a growing white mound.
“So, anyway, it’s my fault, that whole business in Salzburg. I had everyone on the train killed by crazed robbers, who were then bumped off in turn by the mayor in order to cover up his theft of the passengers’ belongings. You awoke in his summer house. Beautiful, wasn’t it?”
“Apart from the blood.”
“And I put the circus folk on the South Bank, ready for you to happen along. And, just recently, I gave Mikachu cancer. He’ll die of it, slowly. There’ll be another year of suffering yet, but if I didn’t make it agonising it wouldn’t really be a test for you, would it?”
“Tom,” I said. “His name is Tom. Not Mikachu.”
“You know what, Violet? You’ve really done me proud so far. You’ve soldiered on, you never gave up and you’ve really never questioned it either, have you? Good for you! You’re exactly the kind of person the Kingdom of Heaven needs. Once you kick the bucket, I highly rate your chances of getting in.”
I couldn’t see my legs anymore; the entire of my lower body was buried under an enormous mound of sand and I couldn’t move an inch. I was sweating profusely in my dressing gown, and even in the shade of the palm trees the sun was beginning to burn my face. “Thank you,” I said, trying to keep the discomfort from my voice, “I really appreciate that. Do you think I might be able to go home now?”
“Of course! Anything for my favourite customer. I’ll take you back to bed. You hang on in there for another sixteen years and then I’ll see you again. I’ll have a piña colada lined up at the floating bar for you. As long as you handle this last decade and a half with dignity, of course. But I’m sure I can count on you.”
God didn’t do anything, as far as I could see – there was no click of the fingers or blink of his eyes. I was simply back in bed again, sitting bolt upright, covered in sweat and sand with Tom lying next to me snoring away as usual.
I know a lot of people take comfort from the idea of God. I can’t say he reassured me that night. Although I have always been fond of a piña colada.
* * *
So, that’s the end of this memoir. I’m done with writing, at least until Tom is gone and I’m alone for the first time in thirty-eight years. Who knows what I’ll get up to then with the time that remains to me? Maybe I’ll travel to Austria. Or rebel against God. That or take up salsa.
I know, I know – I said that once I finished this memoir, I’d leave Tom. I really would love to leave, but I think we’ve all known that’s not on the cards. I’ll see him through his death, like the good wife I am.
So, only one question remains. What shall I do with this memoir?
Does it have to be put to some use? I suppose not. I could put it in a drawer somewhere, or even burn it. But I don’t think I will.
I can think of one person who might benefit from it.
Yes. I’m going to leave it on the doorstep of number thirty-one. If he reads it, I think he might finally begin to understand that I’m here. That I exist in this world. He might even look round as he runs past and give me a look that means, I understand you. Being young is not so different from being old, after all. Telling the truth is not so different f
rom lying when it comes to wanting to be alive. To be interesting. To be meaningful.
I’m going to sneak out tonight, after I’ve put Tom to bed, and I’m going to put this book where he can’t help but see it. Maybe he’ll step over it on his way to the park for his morning run. But maybe, on the way back, he’ll pick it up.
First thing tomorrow morning, I’ll sit here and watch the street, and wait for him to see me. He might knock on the door and start a conversation.
Who knows? Anything could happen.
TO THE FARM
He holds out his bag to me. It’s an antique: real leather with a brass clasp. I think they used to call it a doctor’s bag. It’s far too big for him – he would be better off with a backpack like normal kids have, but Mr and Mrs Collodi would never let him be seen with anything less than the best, not even for this final journey.
“Thank you,” he says.
“You’re welcome, sir.” I take the bag, and open the back door for him. He climbs into his booster seat and straps himself in.
I put his bag on the passenger seat, sit behind the wheel, and swipe the fob. The engine starts, and the car glides down the gravel path. I programmed in the coordinates last night.
“Gerry?” he says.
“Yes sir?”
“Have you been to this farm before?”
“Yes sir.”
“Are there cows and pigs?”
“Oh yes.”
The first time I drove this route was with Chloe, her blond curls shining, a blue bow in her hair. The second time it was Kimmie, with glossy black braids and her serious expression. And now it’s Petie’s turn.
Petie lasted the longest. Seven years, and for the first five he and Mrs Collodi were inseparable. She once said to me, There’s nothing like a little boy, is there, Gerry? And I said, No, Madam. There’s nothing like a little boy.
Petie is nothing like a little boy. There’s no dirty nose and crusted sweater sleeves, no grazes on knees. Petie never does these things, and he never will.
“I don’t remember seeing a place like this before,” he says. We are driving into a less salubrious district; the car is drawing attention. I make sure the doors are locked and adjust the windows to heavy tint. Outside, the stores are tatty: small supermarkets, charity traders, hairdressers offering dyes and dreads. The people walk differently here – faster, shoulders hunched, carrying canvas bags. It’s been so long since I’ve been counted as one of their number that I feel a deep fear of them, as if they could recognise my betrayal and rip me to pieces in punishment.
“Gerry, what happens at the farm?”
“There are fun things to do,” I say. “You’ll have a great time.”
“When will you come and get me?”
The other two asked me that question. This time I have an answer ready. “When your parents tell me to.”
The stores give way to estates, the houses crammed together, the numbers on the doors running in consecutive order to form long strings of similarity. The cars, the shrubs, the drapes, all the same.
“They’re not the same,” Jemima used to say. “Look. Our drapes are purple. Do you see anyone else on our row with purple drapes?”
“It’s not the colour. It’s the principle of it. They make windows that automatically tint themselves now. Nobody should use drapes anymore.”
“Rich people have windows that tint. We have drapes. We will draw drapes every day for the rest of our lives, Gerry. We will carry on drawing the drapes. And it really won’t be that bad.”
She never felt the need to have more, to be more, not even when she was sitting in the state hospice with her wheelchair angled towards the mall car park and the windows framed with threadbare drapes.
The houses continue, for miles, miles, miles. Petie doesn’t speak. Maybe he has turned himself off, I don’t know.
I don’t really understand how they work. It’s a mystery to me why anyone would want one of these synthetic children. There are millions of real ones out there needing adoption. But, of course, they come with real problems and no cachet. Petie is the ultimate toy and the best pet you could ever have. You don’t even have to toilet train him.
We’re on the payway now. The limo ups itself to one hundred and twenty and hits the fast lane. I lighten the windows and see other grand cars doing the same thing, in synchronicity. Bentleys, Jaguars, even a vintage Rolls-Royce that stays in the slow lane. As we pass it, I see the chauffeur, dressed like me, his hat perfectly in place, staring straight ahead.
I have traded one set of similarities for another.
I switch off the automatic and take over driving myself. The alarm sounds for a moment and in the rear-view mirror I see Petie flinch.
“Don’t you like loud noises?” I say.
He shakes his head. His eyes are wet. It’s a clever trick.
“Shall I put some music on?”
He brightens. “I like Mozart.”
“Of course.” I choose the Clarinet Concerto and let it wash over me. It’s not to my personal taste but Petie seems to enjoy it.
After a while the junction comes up. I indicate the old-fashioned way and reduce my speed. We make the turn, then take the second exit on the roundabout. The farm is not signposted, but I know the way even without the navigation system. The last miles pass to the sound of Mozart and then we are parking outside the visitors’ entrance. A length of tall fence encloses the large house with peeling white paint and dirty windows. The fence runs around the sides and continues on, out of view.
I collect the bag and help Petie down from his seat. He looks at the house, the fence, with interest.
“Where are the animals?” he says.
I usher him inside, to the reception. A middle-aged man sits on a sofa opposite the unoccupied desk, his raincoat over his lap. He’s wearing a decent grey suit. Not top quality, but not bad. I wouldn’t mind one myself.
I ring the bell on the desk. It’s another antique, the kind you hit with the palm of your hand. The man says, “They’re just sorting out my order and then they’ll be back.”
“Okay.”
“If you’re dropping one off you can just leave it here, I think. They don’t wander off.” He looks at Petie with an intensity that unsettles me. Petie pulls at my trouser leg, but doesn’t speak.
I turn around. I walk out of the reception and Petie follows along after me. I put him in the car and deposit his bag on the passenger seat once more. I select full tint on the windows, put the car in automatic, and let it drive back home.
* * *
On the first evening in my room I told him, “You have to stay in,” and I know he will never disobey me. I don’t know what he does in the long hours when I’m driving the Collodis to their social engagements. I don’t think he can switch himself off. There’s a watchfulness to him when he goes still. I get the feeling he’s taking it all in, trying to make sense of it all, wondering why he has to keep indoors all day and sleep in the wardrobe all night. And he never did get to see the animals.
He never asks about it. But I often ask myself – what difference does it make? I was happier when I thought they simply dismantled the unwanted ones. My suspicions now are so much worse and I don’t understand why. Surely, in fact, it’s better this way. No real children are being harmed. If some people must have these terrible instincts isn’t it better that they exercise them on objects, not on others with beating hearts?
I find myself wishing for the impossible – that people didn’t have such instincts at all.
“You’re a fantasist,” Jemima said, when she got out of the hospice. “You’re not living in the real world. Things are never going to be perfect and equal. Some of us have to struggle. We get given the tough choices and it makes us better people than those who have it easy. We develop real character. I used to love the fact that you couldn’t see how much more boring we would all be if you got your way.”
I looked at her suitcase, the clasp broken, held together with one of my bel
ts, and said, “Is that how you feel about being misdiagnosed? That it’s made you a better person? Three months of sitting there waiting to die, because you got a bad doctor who misread a scan. What a stroke of luck for you! I bet it’s given you a sense of perspective, hasn’t it? How lucky you are.”
“Luckier than you.” I remember she looked so sad, at that moment. Her pity was unbearable. I’d visited her every day in that place – held her hand, stroked her face, kept my own feelings pushed back so I could show her only strength, and in return she had pitied me. I looked out of the window at the rows of houses, and realised she had taken down her purple drapes and packed them.
A month later, I got upgraded at work from public services driver to live-in chauffeur. The Collodis had liked my face on the file. I wanted to tell her but she’d left no address. She wouldn’t have been impressed anyway.
* * *
I show Petie a picture of Jemima, the one taken in the park. She’s sitting on a swing, the sun in her eyes. She’s squinting, her top lip drawn up, and in the background there is the brick wall of the public toilet daubed with graffiti: the tags of the local lads. I can even see my own tag from my youth, back when I sprayed Jezo on every unguarded surface and thought of myself as a rebel.
“She’s pretty,” says Petie, which is a lie. It’s not the best photo of her and she never was like one of those women on the adverts anyway, but it didn’t matter to me. She was different. Above all that. But I’m thankful to Petie for lying. I tousle his hair and he smiles. “Can I call you Daddy?” he says.
I can’t think of a reason why not. “All right.”
“Daddy. Daddy and Mummy.” He stares at the photo with such adoration on his little face that I tell him he can keep the picture.
Every day he picks up a new phrase, a new expression, working out what pleases me. I teach him to play cards. Blackjack. He’s pretty good at it. I take out the encyclopedias from the library, one at a time, heavy old tomes with paper pages that smell, and he reads for hours, days, weeks, months. Years.
From the Neck Up and Other Stories Page 21