Another Life

by Jodie Chapman

  She turned to look at me, and I wondered if she could see under my skin how fast my heart was beating.

  ‘You’re laughing at me.’

  ‘No, I’m not. I’m just trying to defuse this ridiculous situation.’

  She stood. ‘By laughing at me.’

  I put my hands up in surrender. ‘Look, I really think this conversation has gone down a crazy road. Let’s bring it back somewhere sensible.’

  She snatched her bag from where she’d thrown it when we’d walked in half an hour before, when we’d been grabbing and kissing each other.

  ‘You’re all the same. You’re just looking for another mother. Isn’t one enough?’ Her face burned as she finished her sentence.

  I let the words sit there in the air for a while. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, it is.’

  She fumbled in her bag for her keys. ‘I don’t feel great. I shouldn’t have come.’

  ‘I’ll see you out.’

  ‘Don’t bother.’ She couldn’t get out the door fast enough.

  After a minute or so, I heard the slamming of her car door. There was a pause, then she started the engine and was gone.

  Two days later, we were working the same shift. We’d not spoken since, and I walked into the building with my headphones on and my eyes to the ground. I knew from the rota that she was on Box Office for the week, and as I walked across the foyer, I sensed her gaze following me.

  When I exited the locker room, an arm reached out and pulled me into the adjacent stock cupboard. She shut the door and pushed me against the wall, pressing her body to mine.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said as she kissed my mouth. ‘I’m sorry I said that thing I said. You know.’

  I knew.

  ‘You’re just so calm all the time,’ she said. ‘Even when I’m a bitch to you, you’re so fucking calm and passive that I can’t take it. You make my blood boil.’

  I felt the heat of her against me, and something inside just broke. I pushed her backwards on to the sacks of unpopped corn and sensed her body crumple under my weight. It felt good. Her teeth tore at my tongue and I tasted blood as I pulled at her top, feeling my way up her skin.

  ‘Wait,’ she breathed in my ear, and my hands went still. I let myself slump against her as I caught my breath and allowed the madness in my body to subside.

  When I drew myself up and extended a hand, she took it with a firm grip. We stood there for a few moments, apart, watching the other catch their breath. Then we tucked ourselves in and she smoothed her hair and felt her cheeks with the back of her hands.

  ‘Look what you do to me,’ she said, half to herself. ‘I’m a stranger when I’m with you.’

  You’ll be the end of me, I replied in my head.

  Late Eighties

  There were only two occasions when I heard Mum and Dad fight.

  The first was when Dad grew a beard. He’d been clean-shaven all my life, always at the mirror piling on cream with the smooth wooden-handled brush with bristles that went blonde at the tips. Sometimes I’d perch on the corner of the bath and watch as he made himself up like Father Christmas before running his cut-throat razor over his face with expert precision. He’d talk me through the steps, throwing out an occasional question to check I was listening.

  Then one day, I noticed his skin beginning to disappear from his face. I went into the bathroom and saw a thin layer of dust covering the brush. It became part of my routine to glance at it each morning and see whether it had been touched. Each time it was in exactly the same place, and I’d imagine what his face looked like that day and how long it would take for it to grow past his shoulders. At dinnertime, I’d study him between mouthfuls. It’s funny how the face of someone you know can transform into that of a completely different person when you stare long enough.

  Mum began to make little comments in the light-hearted way she did. Something wrong with your razor? or I’d best start bringing your tea earlier in the mornings so you have time to shave. Dad would just grunt.

  After a couple of weeks, she changed tack. Rather than hanging it up, she’d leave his coat dumped on the chair by the door where he left it. The tin of polish would be left by his shoes for him to clean them himself. Food was deposited on his plate with a forceful thwack of the spoon. He had to get his own beer.

  Finally, one day she lost it. Sal and I got off the school bus and walked in to find them screaming at each other, our mother throwing plates against the wall. We stood on the mat and looked from one to the other.

  When she saw us, Mum covered her face with her hands and ran upstairs. Dad rolled his eyes before disappearing into the living room with the paper. I dropped my bag and went slowly up the stairs, leaving Sal to stare at the pieces of best china all over the floor.

  Outside her room, I leant my ear against the door and heard her crying. It wasn’t the short, staccato yelps that Sal or I made when we fell off our bikes, but a long, guttural moan.

  I knew that if I stepped away, the floorboards would creak and she’d think I had listened and left, so I pushed against the door and went inside.

  She sat on the side of the bed, her back to the door, her body facing the window. I could see her face reflected in the dressing-table mirror, and when she looked up and saw me, she clamped her hand to her mouth as if to seal off the sound inside her.

  I walked round the bed to be close to her. The hollows of her eyes were red raw and her skin looked like it was hurting. She wouldn’t look at me. I could see she was working to stop herself from crying, and the thought of her trying to be someone she wasn’t made my throat start to ache. My hands reached out to touch her, and I leant down and pressed my lips against the top of her head.

  At this, she grabbed my arm and pulled me close, burying her face in my chest and sobbing without sound into my cheap polyester blazer she’d bought from the market a few months before. It was one size too big, but she said I’d start growing into a man soon enough.

  Downstairs, Sal had picked up all the broken pieces and sealed them in a little cardboard box. He took the black marker from his pen pot and wrote TAKE CARE on the top, then left it on the mat by the door so Mum could choose what to do with it.

  The only other time I saw them fight was when Dad invited Nigel over to watch the game.

  Nigel would come with us to London sometimes. He’d sit at Nana’s table, eating her roast potatoes, calling her by her first name and acting part of the family. ‘This is blinding, Rose,’ he’d say as she served him dessert. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve got any custard to go with that cream?’

  His head was smooth as an egg, and he seemed to be trying to compensate by growing the longest handlebar moustache. Tomato soup was the funniest. When he lifted the bowl to his mouth for the dregs, the ends of his ’tache would drop in and soak up any remnants. Sal and I kicked each other under the table and laughed into our sleeves.

  Nigel was a user. He only took an interest in Dad when there was a game on, when he could scrounge a spare ticket or watch the away games from our sofa. Not many people had the sports channels back then.

  Dad had terrible judgement. He was suspicious of almost everyone, but if you paid him a compliment, he was like a dog at your feet. And Nigel was highly skilled in the art of flattery. He’d play dumb when it came to news of transfers and signings, allowing Dad the pleasure of being the first to enlighten him.

  Sometimes he’d involve me in these charades, pulling my cheek and saying things like, ‘You’re a lucky boy, Nick. What son wouldn’t want a dad that lived and breathed football like Paul Mendoza? Cut him open and he’d bleed Arsenal, wouldn’t you, Paul?’ And Dad would just smile, completely taken in.

  Mum was on to him.

  ‘I don’t like that man,’ she said to Dad once. ‘I don’t like how he makes you look.’

  ‘You don’t have to like him,’ he replied. ‘Two teas, one sugar.’

  That was the end of it.

  But one day, Nigel knocked on the door and Mum hadn’t kno
wn he was coming. She took him through to the living room without saying a word, then slammed the door behind her.

  Dad thundered into the kitchen. Sal and I were on the landing, hanging over the banister to hear every word.

  ‘I don’t exist,’ she was saying, slamming washed pots on the metal draining board. ‘Little woman, here to serve.’

  ‘Calm down,’ he said. ‘You’re embarrassing yourself.’

  ‘Don’t I get a say in who I spend my evening with? Is it too much to ask for me to be consulted?’

  ‘Next time I’ll warn you he’s coming so you can compose yourself.’

  ‘Next time? Maybe there won’t be a next time. Maybe you’ll come home to find me gone. Off for a better life.’ Her voice quivered on the final word.

  ‘A one-bedder in the town centre? Try it. I’m sure I’ll manage.’

  It was his turn to slam the door. We watched as he walked down the hall, a six-pack of beers tucked under his arm.

  Sal didn’t get why she wouldn’t put up a fight. ‘Why doesn’t she tell him to go fuck himself?’ Even at a tender age, he was well versed in profanity.

  I shrugged. ‘Maybe she doesn’t know how. Or maybe she loves him.’

  ‘Love? He’s an arsehole. And if that’s how you love someone, no thank you.’

  ‘Do you think this is what every family’s like?’ I said.

  ‘Dunno. But sod getting married and having kids if it is.’

  I nodded.

  Dad would sometimes get up from the dinner table without saying a word. He’d wipe his mouth with his napkin, push back his chair and walk out while the rest of us were still eating. This was usually when Arsenal lost.

  Mum would sit and not say anything. I’d pretend not to notice. But Sal would lean back on his chair and bellow, ‘You’re welcome,’ as loud as he could. There was never any comeback from Dad as he walked down the hall. It was almost like he refused to acknowledge Sal’s existence.

  ‘Why do you let him do that to you?’ Sal would say to Mum, and she’d just shrug and start scraping the plates into the bin.

  Once, when Mum was at the supermarket, Sal and I were doing homework at the kitchen table when Dad walked in.

  ‘Hello, sons.’

  Arsenal had just won.

  ‘Need something?’ I said.

  ‘Your mother not back yet?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Sal. ‘Do you need help finding the kettle?’

  Dad caught sight of the sink piled high with the soup things from lunch.

  ‘Mum said she’d do it when she got back,’ I said quickly, but Dad began to roll up his sleeves.

  ‘No need,’ he said.

  Sal and I looked at each other.

  ‘You know, boys, when I was in the army, we had to polish our boots so the captain could see his face shine in them. My boots always got nicked because I kept them in better condition than anyone else.’

  Sal stuck his fingers in his ears.

  ‘Know what I was also an expert at?’ He pointed with a flourish at the sink. ‘I could wash the breakfast things of the entire platoon within six minutes flat. Here.’ He turned on the tap and passed me his watch. ‘When I say GO, start the timer.’

  He got the temperature right and shut off the tap. ‘Go!’

  Never before had we seen our father wash up. It was always Mum’s back that faced us in that corner of the room, her hands in the Marigolds, her that smelled of suds. Yet here was Paul Mendoza, our dad, who didn’t know where the cutlery was kept: a whole new man.

  ‘Stop!’ He slammed down the final pot.

  ‘One minute and forty-three seconds!’

  He bowed. ‘And that was just a handful of plates and a soup pot. Imagine an entire squadron.’

  ‘Fantastic,’ said Sal, slipping down from his stool and heading out of the room. ‘Now you have no excuse not to do it every day.’

  Mum’s key turned in the lock, and moments later she appeared in the doorway, loaded down with bags.

  ‘All right, darling?’ said Dad, stepping back to let her through. ‘You were a while.’

  ‘The crowds,’ Mum said as she heaved the bags on to the counter. ‘I must have queued for half an hour at the checkout.’ She rested herself against the shopping and closed her eyes.

  ‘I could murder a cup of tea,’ said Dad.

  ‘What?’ She opened her eyes. ‘Oh, right. Yes.’

  ‘No hurry,’ he said, taking the paper from one of the bags and moving towards the door. ‘It can wait until you’ve put everything away.’

  He whistled a tune as he walked down the hall.

  We never understood why she didn’t stick up for herself. Or why it took Nigel and a beard to break her.

  2003

  We were sitting in a shady corner of the memorial gardens, kissing and talking shit. The sun was blazing and she loved the heat, but thought it safer in the shade. Less chance of being seen. It was late morning and already busy. A mix of gangs of teens, old people on benches, lovers entwined.

  It was just us in our corner. We were surrounded by lush, tropical plants, and when we lay down and looked at the palms against the blue sky, the heat from the earth warmed our backs and it felt like we were on some distant island. The monotonous sound of ring-road traffic was really the soothing lull of a tide.

  ‘If you could go anywhere, where would it be?’

  ‘Italy,’ I said without hesitation.

  ‘Me too!’ She propped herself up on her elbow and faced me. ‘You’d find so much inspiration for your writing there. Whereabouts?’

  I shrugged. ‘I’m pretty sure even the rough areas are beautiful. But maybe Venice.’ I turned to face her. ‘Wait. Surely you’ve been to Italy.’

  Anna blushed. ‘I’ve never been to Venice.’

  ‘I’d have thought you’d say Venice is a cliché.’

  She made a face. ‘But how do you avoid cliché? Surely trying to escape and live life free from it is cliché in itself? We’re fucked whichever way.’

  ‘You swear more than anyone I know.’

  She laughed as she picked at the grass. ‘A girl rebels against her religious upbringing by dropping f-bombs at every turn. Classic cliché. Would you prefer it if I didn’t?’

  I shook my head. ‘You’re fine as you are.’

  ‘Good,’ she said, lying back to face the sky. ‘Because I wouldn’t give a shit if you did.’

  I needed to buy summer shoes so we walked further into town, Anna slightly ahead the whole time and scanning faces when we entered a shop.

  ‘It’s like you’re my bodyguard,’ I whispered in her ear, and she looked at me and smiled.

  ‘Are you the one that needs protecting then?’ she said, riffling through a rack of clothes. She pulled out a dark blue T-shirt. ‘This would look great on you. I love a guy in navy.’ She seemed to change her mind and put it back. ‘Shoes, remember?’

  I picked some canvas slip-ons and went to pay as she wandered off towards the back. As I passed the rail, I threw a glance over my shoulder to check her position, found a navy T-shirt in my size and handed it to the girl on the desk.

  Later, we walked back to her car. I could feel the heat radiating through the concrete beneath my shoes. The air smelled of hot tarmac, like petrol about to explode.

  ‘Wait,’ she said, pulling at my arm. ‘What if we did it? What if we went to Italy?’

  I stopped. ‘Together?’

  ‘Yes.’ She tightened her grip. ‘Let’s do it. Let’s go.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I’ve heard Venice is beautiful in winter. Quieter.’ She smiled. ‘Less cliché.’

  I didn’t know how to reply. How I could say yes without first checking if she was sure, if she’d thought through the logistics, the parents, the sneaking around. How would we get away with it? I didn’t know how to answer, so I didn’t.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, dragging me back towards town. ‘What are you so afraid of?’

  We went into a travel agency
and came out with an armload of brochures, glossy pages of gondolas and café tables and skylines at sunset. All the Italian tropes, Anna said, not bothering to walk the usual three feet in front of me. She didn’t seem to care who saw.

  ‘Oh.’ I felt the familiar crush of disappointment as I came to a stop. ‘I don’t have a passport.’

  She looked at me like I’d said the stupidest thing.

  ‘I’ve not been abroad in over ten years,’ I said, trying to explain. My fingers closed around my lighter in my pocket.

  She thought about this, then turned and began walking the other way, I assumed to return the brochures.

  ‘Where are you going?’ I said.

  ‘Post office,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘Will you stop finding excuses?’

  At the counter, we collected the application form and stopped at the photo booth. I peered at my reflection in the skinny mirror and ran a hand across my shaven head.

  She pushed me inside on to the stool. ‘Don’t smile, remember?’ she said as she fed coins into the slot.

  ‘Stop,’ I said as she stepped back and drew the curtain. ‘I have change.’ There was a white pop of light as I spoke.

  ‘That’s one wasted,’ she said from outside. ‘Three left.’

  I settled my features and kept them still, despite the chaos raging inside. Out the corner of my eye, I could see her tanned legs from beneath the curtain. Her red-painted toes. I tried not to smile and the screen flashed again.

  That day I remember as fragments. Lying on the grass in the Mems, walking to her car, the post office, then back at mine, where we flicked through brochures on my bed and discussed where to go. It exists in my mind like a movie montage. Not quite real, a little cliché, all the best bits. Maybe the words weren’t spoken exactly like I remember, but you get a sense of it, and what really do we ever possess of another human being but a sense of them? They’re a smudge at the end of a sentence. A foggy mirror through which we try to make sense of ourselves.

  The two usable pictures went off with the paperwork, and the other of me – unfit for purpose – she tore off and slipped in her purse. I kept the final one. It’s of her leaning in through the curtain, her side profile as she stuck her tongue in my ear. And my mouth is laughing, in surprise, in shock, in terror. My eyes are squeezed shut and my skin is red, as if all the blood has rushed to the surface, as if I can’t quite believe it, as if I am happy.