A week later, we come home from school and propped against Sal’s pillow sits Elephant. He arrived that morning, Mum says, fresh off the boat, where he’d been found tucked behind a chair. She’d rung the ferry office every day until they took her seriously, and now here he is, sent through the postal system in brown paper.
Sal sits on his bed and stares at Elephant for what seems like hours. He picks him up and inspects every inch of him, looking for the faded label and the discoloured foot that prove he’s not a replacement.
‘But will he remember?’ he says to Mum.
She frowns. ‘Remember?’
‘That we left him.’ Sal looks sideways at Elephant.
She sits down on the bed and puts her arm around him. ‘We’ll just have to give him lots of cuddles, won’t we, Nick? Explain it was an accident, that’s all. Nobody’s fault. The important thing is we got him back.’
Sal doesn’t look convinced. He pulls Mum towards him and leans in. ‘But an elephant never forgets,’ he whispers.
She thinks about this for a moment then runs a hand through Sal’s hair. ‘These things happen, sweetheart. We’ll make him feel loved. That’ll fix it.’ She kisses him. ‘Now how about I make us some pancakes?’
A couple of weeks later it is Sal’s birthday, and Mum takes us to the toy shop for the annual tradition of choosing our own gift. He walks past the aisles of cars and trucks where he usually lingers and goes instead to the cuddly toys. There, he picks up a big fluffy scarlet elephant that’s within budget and hugs it tightly to his chest.
‘Are you sure?’ says Mum, slightly confused.
He nods and braces his arms as if preparing for a fight.
‘Well, okay then.’
Back home, he goes to our room and shuts the door, and from that moment, Old Elephant lives in the box of toys along with everything else and it is New Elephant that is loved.
Late August 2003
Those days with Anna come back to me in fragments, the pieces of a cracked mirror; jagged, broken hints of a man I could have been. As the years go by, I lose pieces here and there, until I am left now with an incomplete picture, only the moments I have thought about most. Those synapses are well trodden. And who knows which parts I have edged with metal to make them catch the sun.
Another evening, sometime in the midst of that heat, Anna and I were messing about on my bed. We hung out a lot in my room over the course of that summer. There weren’t many places we could go without risk of discovery, and my legs were too long for hours in her Ford Fiesta.
I was lying on the bed with my T-shirt off. A soft breeze blew in through the window. She was on my lap, her dress hitched up around her waist, one leg either side of me. I tried to concentrate.
‘Have you got anything other than shitty rap music?’ she’d said a few minutes earlier, riffling through my CD rack.
‘Check Sal’s room. He likes blaring guitars, like you do.’ Sal was between rentals and had no choice but to move home for the summer.
‘I can’t go into your brother’s room. What if he’s in there with a girl, like you?’ She tickled me. ‘No, you go. Bring me back a stack. That’s an order.’
When I returned, Anna made her choice and pressed play on the stereo before climbing on to my lap. For the next four minutes, she kissed me between the bars of ‘Karma Police’, stopping to sing every word.
Still lying there, I lit a fag and smoked it, one hand behind my head and the other resting on the ashtray by the window. I rarely smoked in my room – if I did, it was always leaning out into the street – but there was no way I was volunteering her to move.
‘I’ll have a go,’ she said, and I wondered what she meant. She waved to me to put the cigarette to her lips.
‘You sure?’ I said, surprised. ‘I don’t want to be responsible for turning you into an addict.’
I held it to her lips and she breathed in too quickly, flooding her lungs and violently coughing.
‘Eurgh,’ she said, when she’d whacked her chest enough and found her voice. ‘How can you do that all the time? No wonder you taste like you do.’
I narrowed my eyes as I took another drag, and when I breathed out, the smoke came out in rings. ‘You don’t like my smoky kick?’
She closed her eyes and inhaled as she leant down, as if she secretly adored the smell. Our faces were close, and she kissed me.
‘Hate it,’ she whispered, and made a face before kissing me again. ‘Disgusting.’ – Kiss. – ‘Vile.’ – Kiss. – ‘You’re the filthiest thing I’ve ever tasted.’
We must have spent a while just lazing about, kissing each other. This was often the pattern of our days. I’ve imagined Daz and the lads and their reactions if I’d told them we did nothing most times but this. They would never have believed it. Their method was to slip a hand under the top, a greedy thrust, see how far they could get. By now, Anna and I had already been to the lake, but we acted like we knew it wouldn’t happen again. We never spoke of it afterwards, as if it was too sacred a thing to pull apart and dissect with words.
She always seemed so strong to me, but what the hell do I know about women?
There was no talk of this boyfriend since he’d arrived back, and I heard a rumour at work that the break was still going. That he’d wanted to get back together and she wasn’t sure. But then sometimes she didn’t respond to my texts for hours, and in those endless minutes I fantasised about them together: had they gone too far in the back of her car, was he the type to slip a palm down the front of her jeans and would she let him do as he liked? The scenes went on and on in my head.
I should have fought. I should have had it out with her, probed deeper, used the information to prepare my own case. But the reality was that I didn’t want to pollute the time we had together, to let that other life she had get its claws on us too. There I go, talking of reality. When that entire summer felt like a dream, one from which I never wanted to wake.
‘What is it about him?’ I asked during a lull. She was still on my lap, and so far I had done a professional job of ignoring the incessant throbbing in my shorts.
She knew who I meant. ‘Why do you want to know?’ she said, with a slight shake of her head.
Because I fucking want you, I wanted to say. Because I don’t want anyone else to have you. Because surely you’re exhausted by all this feeling too.
‘I’m trying to understand your position,’ I said. ‘We come from two different worlds.’
She stroked my stomach and gave a sad smile. ‘It feels good to make other people happy,’ she said softly, and I remembered what Lisa had told me in the club about her family. Tough love. ‘And I have to get married, remember?’
‘You talk about following the rules, but then you’re here … and you’re not. Do you even believe it?’
She leant back. ‘We’ve spoken about this before. I don’t expect you to understand.’
‘Listen,’ I said gently, sitting up slightly and taking her hand. ‘I’m just trying to get it, that’s all. Because it’s important to you, and …’ … because you’re important to me.
‘… because I’m pretending to be good when I’m really a slut?’
‘What? No, stop.’ I could feel where this was going and wished I had never opened my mouth. ‘Anna, please. I don’t think that way.’
She looked startled at the sound of her name.
‘Why do you have to get married?’ I said. ‘Why is living or even just being with someone so dreadful?’
‘It’s not an option for me,’ she said, her face reddening. ‘I’d lose everyone I know. That was made clear the last time … Like I said, you won’t get it and that’s fine. You’re not a person that even likes the concept of marriage. And why is that, by the way?’
‘It’s not true that you’d lose everyone. Lisa wouldn’t leave you.’
She sighed. ‘I’m not even meant to be friends with Lisa,’ she said. ‘She’s worldly, remember? I’m not meant to go to clubs, or get drunk, o
r hang out with work friends, wear short skirts, go to uni, or sit in worldly boys’ bedrooms. If I got found out …’ She shook her head.
‘Why can’t you go to university? Is it because they teach you to think for yourself?’ I tried to keep my voice level. ‘A person who gets A-grades in every subject should go to university.’
Her shoulders shrugged, but her face suggested she was listening.
‘Why don’t you like the idea of marriage?’ she said again.
I’d clearly not deflected it well enough, and there was no beer or fag to prevent me from answering. ‘I just think that if people want to end a relationship, they should be free to. They shouldn’t have to seek permission from the government, to meet rules and criteria before it’s allowed.’
She frowned. ‘So you’re planning on every relationship ending?’
‘No, but I’m not sure there’s a need for marriage any more. Now that women have freedom and it’s not a business transaction. People should have the right to move on if they’re unhappy.’
‘So there’s no conversation to be had? That’s it. Closed book?’
I thought about this. ‘I don’t get why it even has to be an issue. I’m twenty-two. Who on earth thinks about marriage at our age?’
She looked up at the ceiling and gave a long exhale. ‘You’re right. I don’t even know why we’re talking about it.’
‘Hey.’ I put my hand on her leg and she softened at my touch. ‘My experience of marriage growing up is probably very different to yours. Perhaps your parents were better at it, but it seemed like people stopped trying once they’d said “I do”. That one person could treat the other however they liked, because they knew that person would stay. They were institutionalised and it was too hard to leave. I don’t want that.’
‘Maybe your future doesn’t have to be like your past.’
‘But look, even your rules are different – aren’t you only meant to marry someone from your faith?’
She played with the end of her dress. ‘Officially, yes. But you can get away with marrying an unbeliever. It’s frowned upon, but it isn’t something that would get you kicked out. It’s the getting married that matters.’
‘It seems like they want you to be someone you’re not.’
There was a long silence. We heard the cars speed down the street.
‘I do believe it,’ she said finally. ‘Everyone seems to get it in a way I don’t, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true. There’s something there. I’m just feeling my way through, and hopefully the fog will shift and it will make sense. I don’t talk about it because it’s a reminder that I shouldn’t be with you.’ She looked at me. ‘I shouldn’t be with you.’ She repeated it almost as if in a trance.
No, I thought. No no no no no.
‘So you’re going to go off and marry a good boy because it will make your parents happy? Is that the life you want?’
She touched her cheek as if I had slapped her. ‘Don’t,’ she said, and then her tone hardened: ‘I told you he’d be back by the end of summer. You knew how it was all along.’
‘Sowing your wild oats with me, then?’
She shook her head and climbed off. Her phone fell on the floor with a thud, and she reached down and threw it in her bag. ‘Because this has been all about my pleasure, right? You’ve not done too badly out of it.’
I watched from my bed as she pulled on her shoes and slung her bag over her shoulder. This was my chance to tell her, to open my mouth and declare the words charging through my head. That the day by the lake had been anything but ordinary. That I was not that kind of bloke. But then Lisa had said she had fallen for a bastard, so maybe it was the bastards she loved.
She grabbed her keys and paused at the door, turning, flicking her hair and lifting her chin. ‘You expect me to know who I am, to have it all figured out, because the possibility that I’m still finding out is just too confusing for you. What about you? Who the hell is Nick Mendoza?’ She slammed the door.
I listened for the familiar sound of her car, then lit the first of many cigarettes.
Later that week, Dad took me for a drink at his club. We sat at the bar and watched the boxing on the fuzzy TV in the corner. The only other person in there was old Harry, who was pissed and shouting at the screen.
‘They’re all the same, women, the lot of them,’ said Dad as he finished his pint.
I checked my phone constantly.
How stupid humans are.
2001
Sal never went to university. When we were kids, this was always how he planned to escape.
The way it worked at the time, you applied for a loan to pay the one grand a year tuition. You could then apply for an extra loan to cover living expenses, or else try for a maintenance grant. Of course, if you had rich parents, none of this mattered. Yours was a golden ticket.
But we didn’t have rich parents. We had Dad, who’d spent his life doing bits for cash. This worked well in my first year away at uni. I got a loan for my tuition and, thanks to Dad’s lack of official income, I qualified for a maintenance grant. This I deposited immediately into a high-interest savings account and got a part-time bar job to pay for my expenses. I’ve always been good at keeping to a budget.
The beginning of my third year coincided with what would have been Sal’s first. By then, Dad had landed a proper job running a local garage, doing a bit on the tools as well as running the office and dealing with customers. For the first time in our lives, he received a monthly salary in a bank account. It was a tidy sum. This meant I no longer qualified for maintenance grants and neither would Sal.
‘Can’t you get them to pay you cash for a year?’ said Sal, a few weeks before the deadline. ‘I’ll do what Nick did and save the grant. I’ll get a job on the side and make extra to see me through the other two years.’
It was Sunday morning and Dad was making a fry-up. I’d laid the table and was making tea as Sal stood in the doorway, gripping the frame.
‘Let’s not pretend you’d save anything,’ said Dad, cracking an egg. ‘You’d probably smoke it within the first month. And what would they think if I asked them for cash in an envelope? It’s not that kind of job. You want me to go back to living hand to mouth?’
Sal raked a hand through his hair. ‘There must be a way.’
‘You can get a loan to cover expenses,’ I said, pouring the milk.
‘I’ll already have a loan to cover tuition. I’ll end up with a mountain of debt.’
‘There’s nothing to stop you going somewhere local,’ said Dad. ‘Carry on at the video shop in the evenings and weekends. Your child benefit will be ending this year when you turn eighteen, but I won’t charge you rent. Take it or leave it.’
Sal looked at me. As in all these conversations, I assumed the role of a silent referee. I raised my eyebrows to suggest it was a good offer, but it was clear from how he folded his arms that he didn’t agree.
‘Hardly the real uni experience.’
‘No, you’re right,’ said Dad, ripping the plastic film off a tray of mushrooms. ‘I’d say it’s a far more valuable lesson. It’ll teach you that life doesn’t hand you everything on a plate. Cause and effect.’
‘What’s hilarious is I don’t qualify for a grant because they assume you’ll support me,’ said Sal. ‘The irony.’
‘What’s ironic is you going to university when you seem to know everything already. Just like your mother.’
‘What?’ we said together.
‘She was just the same. Always with this plan or that plan, and no thought for anyone else. Revolutionaries.’ He snorted as he sliced a tomato clean through. ‘Well, you’re not the first and you won’t be the last.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Sal. ‘I want nothing from you. I don’t even want your name on the form. I’ll take a gap year and save. I won’t give you the satisfaction of having any control over my life.’
Dad laughed, but I could see the colour of his neck beginning to darken. ‘You
r problem is you’ve been brought up all wrong,’ he said.
Sal pushed his hands against the door frame and his body began to tremble. ‘And whose fault would that be?’ he said. ‘You’re my fucking father!’
The floorboards shook as he stomped his skinny frame down the hall and up the stairs. His door slammed. The bacon started smoking and Dad grabbed the pan.
When I walked in, Sal was leaning on his palms against the yellowing walls. He faced the floor and his body was heaving, fighting for breath.
‘Sal?’ I touched his shoulder. ‘Hey.’
‘Even now,’ he said, ‘I can’t bear how he talks about her. Like he knew her. Like he really knew who she was.’ And he curled his hand into a fist and punched the wall. He cried out in pain and did it again.
‘Sal!’ I grabbed his arm.
‘I didn’t come from him,’ he said. ‘I didn’t come from that piece of shit. I don’t look anything like him, do I? So there’s a chance.’
It was true. Sal looked nothing like Dad. He had Mum’s wild, blonde hair – like a burst mattress, said Stella – and his frame was wiry. He had none of Dad’s olive colouring, not the piercing eyes or stocky frame that I had inherited. But he had the anger. It came through in flashes, in different ways to Paul Mendoza and with none of the sullenness, but it was there all the same. Under the surface of the knuckles. A scab just waiting to be picked.
I started to speak.
‘It’s a good offer. It costs me hundreds a month just to eat and sleep. And you could carry on with everything as it is now. Football, your mates. You could even save for a car. Nothing would have to change.’
‘No thank you, consigliere.’
‘Don’t be melodramatic.’
Sal stared at me. ‘You don’t get it, do you? It can’t stay the same. Wake up. I need to get the hell out of here.’
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