Tuesday 27 January 2009
Tuesday 13 January 2009
Little Things
I see him every morning, sitting at the bus stop outside my window. He catches the 73 at the same time every day. I don't know if he's noticed me or not. People look out of windows more than they look in, don't they? It seems nosier to look in than out. I wonder why that is?
He's not at the bus stop yet. But it's only five past nine. I came back from breakfast early, worried that I'd miss him. Silly isn't it? His bus doesn't even come until quarter past. Sometimes I get nervous just waiting for him to come, like I'm on a blind date. That's silly, isn't it?
I haven't told anyone here that I watch him. They'd just worry. They'd think that I was going to try and hurt him or something stupid like that. But I've never wanted to hurt anyone else. They all say they understand, but they don't. None of them.
Like when the nurse came in a couple of weeks after I first got here. She was only about my age, a year older maybe. She took one look at me, at the bandages on my arms, and she said, 'Why does a pretty girl like you want to do that to herself?'
I just looked out of the window. I didn't say anything. I don't anymore. There's no point. They only think you're lying anyway. And so I keep quiet. It's best that way. Well, most of the time. Sometimes though, like today, I feel like a jug that's filling up, just filling up with words and thoughts that are going to come spilling out at any moment.
And then I look at him at the bus stop and I think that he's the person I'd like to spill my thoughts onto. I'd like to drench him in everything I'm holding in.
I know it sounds silly, but I think I can trust him. He looks like someone people tell things to, like someone who's holding loads of secrets. He looks like he's sensitive, thoughtful. He wears cords and he's got a 'Make Love Not War' sign on his bag. It's little things, I know, but it's something all the same. Everything's made up of little things.
I remember when I was younger, years and years before all this happened, and mum took us to a museum somewhere. I don't remember what else was there, all I can remember is a huge picture of Donald Duck.
I said, 'Look at that picture.' And mum said, 'Go and look at it up close.'
Sam and I walked over and we looked at it. It was behind glass which had tiny handprints all over it.
'It's all jelly beans,' Sam said. She didn't sound impressed at all. 'It's made out of jelly beans.'
She walked back to mum and I stood there looking at the picture of Donald Duck, at all the jelly beans that made him up. Yellow, blue, red, green. I thought that was one of the best things I'd ever seen, and all the rest of the day I wondered how they'd managed to make him look exactly the same as he does in the cartoons.
Sometimes, when I look at the man at the bus stop, I think like that. I think about all the little things that make him who he is. I think about where he went to school, about who his best friend was, what his favourite film is, what book he's reading at the moment. I think about how he holds his knife and fork, about which side of the bed he sleeps on and whether he uses the shower gel or the shampoo first. I think about what the first tape he bought was.
I think about all these things, and I know it's silly. But it gets me through the day. It gets me through the day because I want to find all these things out.
I can see him coming now. He's jeans with the right knee torn. I’ve seen them before. Oh god, I should look away. He's going to see me. I should look away, but I can't, I just can't. He's getting closer. He's getting closer. Oh god, he's looking in. He's seen me. He's seen me and-, and he's smiling. He's smiling at me.
He's smiling at me.
And I'm smiling back.
He's not at the bus stop yet. But it's only five past nine. I came back from breakfast early, worried that I'd miss him. Silly isn't it? His bus doesn't even come until quarter past. Sometimes I get nervous just waiting for him to come, like I'm on a blind date. That's silly, isn't it?
I haven't told anyone here that I watch him. They'd just worry. They'd think that I was going to try and hurt him or something stupid like that. But I've never wanted to hurt anyone else. They all say they understand, but they don't. None of them.
Like when the nurse came in a couple of weeks after I first got here. She was only about my age, a year older maybe. She took one look at me, at the bandages on my arms, and she said, 'Why does a pretty girl like you want to do that to herself?'
I just looked out of the window. I didn't say anything. I don't anymore. There's no point. They only think you're lying anyway. And so I keep quiet. It's best that way. Well, most of the time. Sometimes though, like today, I feel like a jug that's filling up, just filling up with words and thoughts that are going to come spilling out at any moment.
And then I look at him at the bus stop and I think that he's the person I'd like to spill my thoughts onto. I'd like to drench him in everything I'm holding in.
I know it sounds silly, but I think I can trust him. He looks like someone people tell things to, like someone who's holding loads of secrets. He looks like he's sensitive, thoughtful. He wears cords and he's got a 'Make Love Not War' sign on his bag. It's little things, I know, but it's something all the same. Everything's made up of little things.
I remember when I was younger, years and years before all this happened, and mum took us to a museum somewhere. I don't remember what else was there, all I can remember is a huge picture of Donald Duck.
I said, 'Look at that picture.' And mum said, 'Go and look at it up close.'
Sam and I walked over and we looked at it. It was behind glass which had tiny handprints all over it.
'It's all jelly beans,' Sam said. She didn't sound impressed at all. 'It's made out of jelly beans.'
She walked back to mum and I stood there looking at the picture of Donald Duck, at all the jelly beans that made him up. Yellow, blue, red, green. I thought that was one of the best things I'd ever seen, and all the rest of the day I wondered how they'd managed to make him look exactly the same as he does in the cartoons.
Sometimes, when I look at the man at the bus stop, I think like that. I think about all the little things that make him who he is. I think about where he went to school, about who his best friend was, what his favourite film is, what book he's reading at the moment. I think about how he holds his knife and fork, about which side of the bed he sleeps on and whether he uses the shower gel or the shampoo first. I think about what the first tape he bought was.
I think about all these things, and I know it's silly. But it gets me through the day. It gets me through the day because I want to find all these things out.
I can see him coming now. He's jeans with the right knee torn. I’ve seen them before. Oh god, I should look away. He's going to see me. I should look away, but I can't, I just can't. He's getting closer. He's getting closer. Oh god, he's looking in. He's seen me. He's seen me and-, and he's smiling. He's smiling at me.
He's smiling at me.
And I'm smiling back.
Saturday 10 January 2009
In The Night
Sitting beside her on the sofa, he stretches and yawns. ‘Up to bed?’ he asks. Always a question though the answer has never differed. Not once in a marriage of thirty years.
And so they go, to the room in which she’s not slept for a year. Not since last September. A year in which she has grown bony and gaunt; a year in which she’s forgotten how it feels to be at peace.
While her husband’s body has stilled with sleep beside her, his breath deep and slow, she has stared at the ceiling, her heart racing against her chest, that afternoon playing before her in the faint moonlight.
Tonight is no different of course. Why should it be? Why should any night from now on be different? A moment of distraction had changed her life forever, broken the heart of a family she’d never known but now couldn’t shake from her mind.
She spoke about it at first, told her husband about the bad dreams, the fear and the sweats, but he’d said simply, ‘It was an accident, Sherry. You heard the judge. A terrible accident. You can’t go on blaming yourself.’
How wrong he was, because ever since that day guilt has swelled within her, suffocating the self she knew. Oh, she functions as she always did – she tidies the house, cooks the dinner, finishes the crossword in the paper - but inside she is shattered, haunted by memories only she can recollect: the dull thud of the body on the windscreen, the spiderweb crack in the glass, the blood spreading out on the concrete as realisation swept over her like a wave of pain. She had killed someone, she realised as sirens wailed in the distance. She, Sherry Murray, a woman who had lived her life without so much as a parking ticket, had killed someone.
They can say all they want: that the girl shouldn’t have been crossing the road, that it was a blind bend, that there was no way she could have stopped in time, even doing just 30. They could tell her the cold facts again and again, but it would make no difference. It wouldn’t bring the girl back.
So perhaps two lives had been claimed that day, she thinks now, tears fresh in her eyes. One of a girl whose life had been ahead of her, the other an old woman for whom death would be now be a relief, a purge of pain.
And so they go, to the room in which she’s not slept for a year. Not since last September. A year in which she has grown bony and gaunt; a year in which she’s forgotten how it feels to be at peace.
While her husband’s body has stilled with sleep beside her, his breath deep and slow, she has stared at the ceiling, her heart racing against her chest, that afternoon playing before her in the faint moonlight.
Tonight is no different of course. Why should it be? Why should any night from now on be different? A moment of distraction had changed her life forever, broken the heart of a family she’d never known but now couldn’t shake from her mind.
She spoke about it at first, told her husband about the bad dreams, the fear and the sweats, but he’d said simply, ‘It was an accident, Sherry. You heard the judge. A terrible accident. You can’t go on blaming yourself.’
How wrong he was, because ever since that day guilt has swelled within her, suffocating the self she knew. Oh, she functions as she always did – she tidies the house, cooks the dinner, finishes the crossword in the paper - but inside she is shattered, haunted by memories only she can recollect: the dull thud of the body on the windscreen, the spiderweb crack in the glass, the blood spreading out on the concrete as realisation swept over her like a wave of pain. She had killed someone, she realised as sirens wailed in the distance. She, Sherry Murray, a woman who had lived her life without so much as a parking ticket, had killed someone.
They can say all they want: that the girl shouldn’t have been crossing the road, that it was a blind bend, that there was no way she could have stopped in time, even doing just 30. They could tell her the cold facts again and again, but it would make no difference. It wouldn’t bring the girl back.
So perhaps two lives had been claimed that day, she thinks now, tears fresh in her eyes. One of a girl whose life had been ahead of her, the other an old woman for whom death would be now be a relief, a purge of pain.
Tuesday 6 January 2009
Veronica Marie Jefferson
If there was one thing that Veronica Marie Jefferson savoured, it was the once familiar smell of success. A girl born into privilege, she’d scored straight As in her school exams, gained the highest First that Oxford had ever known, and later won a Pulitzer prize for her cutting edge journalism.
Ten years ago she’d surpassed even herself by giving birth to Angela - or Angel as she was called at home - without the need for an epidural. She’d dismissed offers from nurses with a wave of a hand, sure that it was only women who’d never risen to a challenge in their lives that took such an easy option. No, no, she would do this properly, she’d thought as the nurses’ cooing blurred around her.
Twelve hours later, she held her baby in her arms. The pain had been excruciating, of course, but she’d done it. She had done it because she’d been determined.
Since then, on Richard’s insistence, she had become a full-time mother, and the job was the first that she couldn’t quite manage. Yes, she was wonderful at the cooking and the cleaning, the school runs and the sleepovers, but, and she’d never admit this to anyone, she just couldn’t find a bond with her daughter. In fact, if home was a professional environment and Angela was her employee, she’d be fired with immediate effect for her poor effort and complete lack of ambition.
Though she’d allowed a little leeway in the first few years and had resisted the urge to put too much pressure on her daughter to walk and talk (though she was still quicker than Liz-next-door’s simple Sally, thank you very much), it was now that Veronica was starting to panic. Though she had her mother’s good looks, Angela had neither her way with words or her father’s mathematical mind. In all honesty, she was turning out to be decidedly average at best and a heart-stopping letdown at worst.
Whenever Veronica brought this up with Angela in family meetings, however, Richard would cut her off immediately.
‘She’s ten, darling,’ he’d say, the number in verbal italics as if Veronica could have forgotten.
‘I was winning short story competitions at ten,’ she’d retort, aware of her daughter sitting beside her, all goggle eyes and goofy teeth. ‘I don’t think it’s unfair of me to have expectations of her, Richard. There must be something she’s good at, for God’s sake, but I feel like we’ve tried everything.’ She looked at Angela and sighed loudly. ‘What do you want to do with your life? What are you passionate about?’’
Her daughter shrugged, a habit that Veronica loathed. ‘Don’t know,’ she said, more to the table than her mother.
‘How can you not know? I knew I wanted to be a journalist when I was seven. You’re ten! Didn’t I ever tell you about the review I wrote on The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe? My teacher thought I’d copied it from the Times Literary Supplement. How can you not know what you want to do? Time’s getting on, Angela. Isn’t there anyone you admire? Anyone you want to be like?’
She waited for a moment and prepared herself to be modest after hearing that all little girls wanted to be like their mothers. Me, Angel? She’d say, patting her daughter’s head as if she were an obedient dog. Oh, you’re just so sweet. Richard, did you hear that? Angel said she wants to be just like me, I can’t believe she-,
‘I like Ariel,’ Angela said suddenly, nervously picking the skin around her thumbs. Another horrible habit. ‘I’d like to be like her.’
Veronica drummed her fingers on her chin. Ariel, she thought. An unusual name. An actress? That could work, given she could pull enough strings to get Angela into the Sylvia Young school. A musician? Perhaps, though Veronica still hadn’t recovered from Angela’s terrifying recorder solo in the school concert. She still couldn’t believe that the audience had applauded!
‘Who’s Ariel, sweetheart?’ she asked at last.
‘The little mermaid.’
It was moments such as this that Veronica wondered if she’d brought the wrong child home from the hospital. And if it really was too late to take her back.
A few days later though, ever the lateral thinker, she decided to make her daughter a swimmer. A swimmer! What fun! At last, she’d told Richard, something she’s interested in. Something she wants to do.
He’d not shared her enthusiasm, though, and said simply, ‘Don’t be too pushy with her, Ronnie.’
‘As if I would be,’ she replied, already imagining another trophy cabinet beside her own.
Angela’s lessons were on Saturdays at 8am, and every week Veronica would go to watch her daughter from the sidelines, her nerves in shreds as if watching soldiers cross a minefield. Should she be splashing that much? she’d wonder. Shouldn’t she be quicker? Is that grunting sound normal?
Taking Andre the teacher aside one morning while Angela changed, Veronica asked, ‘How’s she getting on?’
He nodded quickly. ‘Fine. She’s getting on fine.’
‘Fine? That’s all? Do you think she’s good enough to go professional?’
‘She’s only been coming here for three weeks.’
Veronica met his eye. ‘That’s not what I asked,’ she said.
He sighed. ‘Most professionals start swimming a lot younger than Angela, but she could make it if she sets her mind to it.’ He handed her a leaflet from his back pocket. ‘Look, there’s a gala in two weeks. Why don’t you see if she wants to enter? It’ll be a good chance for her to swim competitively. And you can see how she’s doing compared to her peers.’
‘Wonderful,’ Veronica said, slipping the leaflet into her Prada handbag. ‘That’s just perfect.’
A moment later, Angela appeared from the changing rooms and Veronica forced herself not to see her daughter’s pasty limbs sticking out of a stretched Speedo suit, but instead a little mermaid. A little mermaid whose success she could make her own.
In the two weeks leading up to the gala, Veronica felt as if she were competing in the event herself. Every day she was up at 5am to take Angela to the swimming pool for two hours before school, then she’d be the first at the gates of St Joseph’s Primary at three-thirty, bundling her daughter into the back of the car for another an hour of swimming in the evening. Everything in the house began to smell of chlorine, and the tips of Angela’s fingers were permanent prunes. But what did that matter in the long run?
‘Do you think she’s doing too much?’ Richard asked one evening over dinner during which a silent Angela turned from shades of white to shades of green.
‘She wanted to be a mermaid, Richard,’ Veronica snapped. ‘A mermaid has to swim!’
‘I feel sick,’ muttered Angela.
‘No you don’t, darling,’ Veronica said, setting down her knife and fork and putting on her ‘fighting talk’ voice. ‘You feel fear. And what did I tell you about fear? Hmm? Come on, what do we say to fear?’
Angela made a sound that could have been her swallowing her own tongue, then turned the greenest green that Veronica had ever witnessed on human flesh.
‘Come on sweetheart,’ she encouraged through gritted teeth. ‘What do we tell fear?’
Her daughter looked up, burbled, ‘There’s no fear here,’ then vomited into her plate.
Veronica smiled with pride, then looked to Richard who was staring at her with his jaw dropped.
She rolled her eyes. ‘Nerves. What can you do?’
The drive to the swimming pool on the morning of the gala was beyond tense. Angela was in the back, already in her swimming costume at Veronica’s insistence, and Richard was in the passenger seat with the, ‘Go Angel, Go!!!’ banner folded in his lap.
‘She knows it’s not all about winning, doesn’t she?’ he asked in a whisper.
‘Don’t start that talk with me, Richard,’ Veronica said in a forced cheery tone. ‘You know what I think about that kind of thing. If she doesn’t want to win, she shouldn’t be taking part.’ She looked in the rear view mirror and caught her daughter’s eye. ‘Right, sweetheart?’
‘Right,’ Angela nodded.
Though she wasn’t one to judge, Veronica was certain that the majority of the other parents at the gala were the sorts whose children shouldn’t be in public swimming baths. The sorts who wouldn’t have paid the money she had to get Angel ready for this competition. No doubt they’d just hoped the school swimming lessons once a week would be enough to see them through to victory. The fools. Oh, of course she should pity them, but they were probably happy in their own little ways. People were like that, weren’t they? Even she’d seen Wife Swap enough times to understand that.
When Angela appeared with the rest of the swimmers at the deep end of the swimming pool, Veronica stood up holding the banner above her head.
‘Go on, Angel,’ she screamed, hearing her echo bounce back. ‘There’s no fear here!’
Rows of common faces turned to look at her, but she paid them no heed. Poor things, she thought, not giving their children any support. Still, someone had to keep the state schools running.
Feeling Richard’s hand on her knee, she turned to look at her husband.
‘You’ll be okay whatever the outcome, won’t you?’ he said hesitantly.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘I mean, you won’t make her feel terrible if she loses.’
‘How can I make her feel terrible?’
‘By making her feel like a failure.’
‘A failure is someone who loses,’ she said. ‘And she’s not going to lose, is she? We’ve paid all that money. She’s had the best training possible.’
‘But what if-,’
‘No, Richard. No what ifs. She’s not going to lose. Is that understood?’
Moments later, a whistle was blown and the swimmers dived into the pool in a blur of action. All except for Angela who stood at the edge and, with her legs crossed, looked as if she was going to wet herself.
Though she opened her mouth to shout for her daughter to move, Veronica was silent and it took until the swimmers had swum one length for her to realise that Angela wasn’t going to be joining them.
Before she knew what she was doing, she had grabbed Angela’s swimming bag and hoisted herself over the wall separating the spectators from the swimmers, her heart thumping hard against her chest.
Though someone tried to stop her, she barged past and marched over to her daughter who was shivering now, tears wobbling in the corners of her eyes.
What the hell are you doing? She wanted to scream. I’ve paid good money for you to win this gala, and you’re making a complete show of me.
But while that may have been what she thought, it wasn’t what she felt. And as she wrapped a towel around her trembling body and held her close she wondered if perhaps they had come together after all.
Ten years ago she’d surpassed even herself by giving birth to Angela - or Angel as she was called at home - without the need for an epidural. She’d dismissed offers from nurses with a wave of a hand, sure that it was only women who’d never risen to a challenge in their lives that took such an easy option. No, no, she would do this properly, she’d thought as the nurses’ cooing blurred around her.
Twelve hours later, she held her baby in her arms. The pain had been excruciating, of course, but she’d done it. She had done it because she’d been determined.
Since then, on Richard’s insistence, she had become a full-time mother, and the job was the first that she couldn’t quite manage. Yes, she was wonderful at the cooking and the cleaning, the school runs and the sleepovers, but, and she’d never admit this to anyone, she just couldn’t find a bond with her daughter. In fact, if home was a professional environment and Angela was her employee, she’d be fired with immediate effect for her poor effort and complete lack of ambition.
Though she’d allowed a little leeway in the first few years and had resisted the urge to put too much pressure on her daughter to walk and talk (though she was still quicker than Liz-next-door’s simple Sally, thank you very much), it was now that Veronica was starting to panic. Though she had her mother’s good looks, Angela had neither her way with words or her father’s mathematical mind. In all honesty, she was turning out to be decidedly average at best and a heart-stopping letdown at worst.
Whenever Veronica brought this up with Angela in family meetings, however, Richard would cut her off immediately.
‘She’s ten, darling,’ he’d say, the number in verbal italics as if Veronica could have forgotten.
‘I was winning short story competitions at ten,’ she’d retort, aware of her daughter sitting beside her, all goggle eyes and goofy teeth. ‘I don’t think it’s unfair of me to have expectations of her, Richard. There must be something she’s good at, for God’s sake, but I feel like we’ve tried everything.’ She looked at Angela and sighed loudly. ‘What do you want to do with your life? What are you passionate about?’’
Her daughter shrugged, a habit that Veronica loathed. ‘Don’t know,’ she said, more to the table than her mother.
‘How can you not know? I knew I wanted to be a journalist when I was seven. You’re ten! Didn’t I ever tell you about the review I wrote on The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe? My teacher thought I’d copied it from the Times Literary Supplement. How can you not know what you want to do? Time’s getting on, Angela. Isn’t there anyone you admire? Anyone you want to be like?’
She waited for a moment and prepared herself to be modest after hearing that all little girls wanted to be like their mothers. Me, Angel? She’d say, patting her daughter’s head as if she were an obedient dog. Oh, you’re just so sweet. Richard, did you hear that? Angel said she wants to be just like me, I can’t believe she-,
‘I like Ariel,’ Angela said suddenly, nervously picking the skin around her thumbs. Another horrible habit. ‘I’d like to be like her.’
Veronica drummed her fingers on her chin. Ariel, she thought. An unusual name. An actress? That could work, given she could pull enough strings to get Angela into the Sylvia Young school. A musician? Perhaps, though Veronica still hadn’t recovered from Angela’s terrifying recorder solo in the school concert. She still couldn’t believe that the audience had applauded!
‘Who’s Ariel, sweetheart?’ she asked at last.
‘The little mermaid.’
It was moments such as this that Veronica wondered if she’d brought the wrong child home from the hospital. And if it really was too late to take her back.
A few days later though, ever the lateral thinker, she decided to make her daughter a swimmer. A swimmer! What fun! At last, she’d told Richard, something she’s interested in. Something she wants to do.
He’d not shared her enthusiasm, though, and said simply, ‘Don’t be too pushy with her, Ronnie.’
‘As if I would be,’ she replied, already imagining another trophy cabinet beside her own.
Angela’s lessons were on Saturdays at 8am, and every week Veronica would go to watch her daughter from the sidelines, her nerves in shreds as if watching soldiers cross a minefield. Should she be splashing that much? she’d wonder. Shouldn’t she be quicker? Is that grunting sound normal?
Taking Andre the teacher aside one morning while Angela changed, Veronica asked, ‘How’s she getting on?’
He nodded quickly. ‘Fine. She’s getting on fine.’
‘Fine? That’s all? Do you think she’s good enough to go professional?’
‘She’s only been coming here for three weeks.’
Veronica met his eye. ‘That’s not what I asked,’ she said.
He sighed. ‘Most professionals start swimming a lot younger than Angela, but she could make it if she sets her mind to it.’ He handed her a leaflet from his back pocket. ‘Look, there’s a gala in two weeks. Why don’t you see if she wants to enter? It’ll be a good chance for her to swim competitively. And you can see how she’s doing compared to her peers.’
‘Wonderful,’ Veronica said, slipping the leaflet into her Prada handbag. ‘That’s just perfect.’
A moment later, Angela appeared from the changing rooms and Veronica forced herself not to see her daughter’s pasty limbs sticking out of a stretched Speedo suit, but instead a little mermaid. A little mermaid whose success she could make her own.
In the two weeks leading up to the gala, Veronica felt as if she were competing in the event herself. Every day she was up at 5am to take Angela to the swimming pool for two hours before school, then she’d be the first at the gates of St Joseph’s Primary at three-thirty, bundling her daughter into the back of the car for another an hour of swimming in the evening. Everything in the house began to smell of chlorine, and the tips of Angela’s fingers were permanent prunes. But what did that matter in the long run?
‘Do you think she’s doing too much?’ Richard asked one evening over dinner during which a silent Angela turned from shades of white to shades of green.
‘She wanted to be a mermaid, Richard,’ Veronica snapped. ‘A mermaid has to swim!’
‘I feel sick,’ muttered Angela.
‘No you don’t, darling,’ Veronica said, setting down her knife and fork and putting on her ‘fighting talk’ voice. ‘You feel fear. And what did I tell you about fear? Hmm? Come on, what do we say to fear?’
Angela made a sound that could have been her swallowing her own tongue, then turned the greenest green that Veronica had ever witnessed on human flesh.
‘Come on sweetheart,’ she encouraged through gritted teeth. ‘What do we tell fear?’
Her daughter looked up, burbled, ‘There’s no fear here,’ then vomited into her plate.
Veronica smiled with pride, then looked to Richard who was staring at her with his jaw dropped.
She rolled her eyes. ‘Nerves. What can you do?’
The drive to the swimming pool on the morning of the gala was beyond tense. Angela was in the back, already in her swimming costume at Veronica’s insistence, and Richard was in the passenger seat with the, ‘Go Angel, Go!!!’ banner folded in his lap.
‘She knows it’s not all about winning, doesn’t she?’ he asked in a whisper.
‘Don’t start that talk with me, Richard,’ Veronica said in a forced cheery tone. ‘You know what I think about that kind of thing. If she doesn’t want to win, she shouldn’t be taking part.’ She looked in the rear view mirror and caught her daughter’s eye. ‘Right, sweetheart?’
‘Right,’ Angela nodded.
Though she wasn’t one to judge, Veronica was certain that the majority of the other parents at the gala were the sorts whose children shouldn’t be in public swimming baths. The sorts who wouldn’t have paid the money she had to get Angel ready for this competition. No doubt they’d just hoped the school swimming lessons once a week would be enough to see them through to victory. The fools. Oh, of course she should pity them, but they were probably happy in their own little ways. People were like that, weren’t they? Even she’d seen Wife Swap enough times to understand that.
When Angela appeared with the rest of the swimmers at the deep end of the swimming pool, Veronica stood up holding the banner above her head.
‘Go on, Angel,’ she screamed, hearing her echo bounce back. ‘There’s no fear here!’
Rows of common faces turned to look at her, but she paid them no heed. Poor things, she thought, not giving their children any support. Still, someone had to keep the state schools running.
Feeling Richard’s hand on her knee, she turned to look at her husband.
‘You’ll be okay whatever the outcome, won’t you?’ he said hesitantly.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘I mean, you won’t make her feel terrible if she loses.’
‘How can I make her feel terrible?’
‘By making her feel like a failure.’
‘A failure is someone who loses,’ she said. ‘And she’s not going to lose, is she? We’ve paid all that money. She’s had the best training possible.’
‘But what if-,’
‘No, Richard. No what ifs. She’s not going to lose. Is that understood?’
Moments later, a whistle was blown and the swimmers dived into the pool in a blur of action. All except for Angela who stood at the edge and, with her legs crossed, looked as if she was going to wet herself.
Though she opened her mouth to shout for her daughter to move, Veronica was silent and it took until the swimmers had swum one length for her to realise that Angela wasn’t going to be joining them.
Before she knew what she was doing, she had grabbed Angela’s swimming bag and hoisted herself over the wall separating the spectators from the swimmers, her heart thumping hard against her chest.
Though someone tried to stop her, she barged past and marched over to her daughter who was shivering now, tears wobbling in the corners of her eyes.
What the hell are you doing? She wanted to scream. I’ve paid good money for you to win this gala, and you’re making a complete show of me.
But while that may have been what she thought, it wasn’t what she felt. And as she wrapped a towel around her trembling body and held her close she wondered if perhaps they had come together after all.
Monday 5 January 2009
The Day-Moon
There was a day-moon on the winter morning that the young woman’s heart was broken. Perhaps she wouldn’t have noticed it if she’d accepted his offer of a lift home, but as it was she’d walked along the coastal path, her body and heart still trembling from what he’d said an hour ago. Over the table in the café he’d spoken five words that eclipsed all she had come to know. ‘I don’t love you anymore.’ That was all. Five words. She’d heard each individually at first and taken a moment to piece them together, ‘don’t’ and ‘love’ as clear as the halo moon above her now.
Sitting at a wooden bench overlooking the sea, she crossed her arms and tucked her hands into her jacket pockets, the icy breeze harsh against her face. But though she was numb from the cold, she couldn’t bear to go back to the flat because within the four walls of every room were reminders of happier times: smiling faces would look out at her from photographs on the fridge, his neat handwriting would be on the Post-It pad by the telephone, his books on his side of the unmade bed, his cologne in the bathroom cabinet. She would have to box all this up at some point, she knew that, but right now the thought of doing so lent his leaving a permanence she didn’t dare consider. They’d only taken a break of two weeks, but in that time he’d decided that their love was over. And she’d missed him more than she’d ever thought possible.
‘Cold out, isn’t it?’
Startled by a voice beside her, the young woman turned to see an elderly lady lower herself onto the bench. In a heavy looking duffel coat, she leant back in the seat, stretched out her legs and sighed as if slipping into a warm bath.
‘The doctor says I shouldn’t be out in this weather, really,’ she said in a voice as scratchy as old vinyl. ‘My circulation’s not what it used to be. But I said to him, ‘’I’ve got to go out,’’ I said. ‘’Can’t keep myself cooped up all day.’’ Besides, what’d happen to Bernie here?’ She nodded down to a shivering Jack Russell that the young woman hadn’t noticed until now. ‘A dog don’t understand bad circulation. If he wants to go for a walk, you got to take him for a walk.’ She tutted as if talking to the doctor. ‘Can’t let something like the cold stop you doing what you want, can you?’
‘No,’ said the young woman. ‘I suppose not.’
They sat, then, in silence, these women of different generations both looking out at the sea that rolled back and forth, back and forth.
The young woman wondered for a moment if she should go home now that her solitude had been interrupted, but no sooner had the thought entered her mind than she asked herself what the point would be. Though it was true that she was no longer alone here, at least it was only her flesh that was cold. At home it would be her heart and soul that would be chilled by the reality that he no longer lived with her, that he was nothing more than a ghost in the flat, made up of memories. And so, to make conversation, she said in a quiet voice, ‘A moon in the daytime doesn’t seem quite right, does it?’
The old woman shook her head and pursed her near-blue lips. ‘But we can’t have the summer if we don’t have the winter. I remember when I was a little girl I used to think that winter would never end. It seemed like I was waking up in the dark and coming home in the dark, never seeing any sunlight at all. I couldn’t wait to get out and play again. And then I thought the same when the summer came. I couldn’t even imagine a day that I’d have to wear more than a cotton dress. But, course, the seasons change, don’t they? Nothing lasts forever.’ She adjusted the headscarf she was wearing and looked at the young woman as if for the first time. ‘Do you mind me talking to you?’ she asked. ‘It’s just I don’t see no one all day and I’ve got to talk to someone else I worry I’ll never speak again. My throat goes all dry, see.’
‘I don’t mind,’ the young woman said, and in an instant heard his voice again: I don’t love you anymore. Each heavy word carried a bruise if its own and she wondered, If nothing lasts forever, would this pain in her heart cease at some point? And if so, when? In the fresh green of spring? The sticky heat of summer? The dull gold of autumn? The thought of still feeling this way in a year’s time filled her with a bone-aching dread and she decided that a heartache in winter must be the cruellest of them all.
‘Course, what we forget,’ the old woman beside her said, clearing her throat, ‘is that it takes time. The seasons, I mean. We don’t wake up one day and it’s summer outside, do we? First the mornings get lighter, then it starts getting warmer, then the evenings get longer. It doesn’t happen overnight.’
‘When do you think it will get warmer?’ she asked.
‘Like I said, it’ll take time. Can’t rush it, can we? Give it a few months, we’ll soon feel the difference.’
Nodding in agreement, the young woman stared ahead at the pearly day-moon and imagined the seasons changing before her. It would be weeks, months even, before she’d see any change. But change would come, wouldn’t it? It was inevitable. That was nature, after all. And if it happened around her, wouldn’t it happen within her, too?
After the old woman and the dog left, the young woman stayed at the bench and watched as the day-moon became the night-moon and the stars pierced the dark sky with light. Change was already in the air.
Sitting at a wooden bench overlooking the sea, she crossed her arms and tucked her hands into her jacket pockets, the icy breeze harsh against her face. But though she was numb from the cold, she couldn’t bear to go back to the flat because within the four walls of every room were reminders of happier times: smiling faces would look out at her from photographs on the fridge, his neat handwriting would be on the Post-It pad by the telephone, his books on his side of the unmade bed, his cologne in the bathroom cabinet. She would have to box all this up at some point, she knew that, but right now the thought of doing so lent his leaving a permanence she didn’t dare consider. They’d only taken a break of two weeks, but in that time he’d decided that their love was over. And she’d missed him more than she’d ever thought possible.
‘Cold out, isn’t it?’
Startled by a voice beside her, the young woman turned to see an elderly lady lower herself onto the bench. In a heavy looking duffel coat, she leant back in the seat, stretched out her legs and sighed as if slipping into a warm bath.
‘The doctor says I shouldn’t be out in this weather, really,’ she said in a voice as scratchy as old vinyl. ‘My circulation’s not what it used to be. But I said to him, ‘’I’ve got to go out,’’ I said. ‘’Can’t keep myself cooped up all day.’’ Besides, what’d happen to Bernie here?’ She nodded down to a shivering Jack Russell that the young woman hadn’t noticed until now. ‘A dog don’t understand bad circulation. If he wants to go for a walk, you got to take him for a walk.’ She tutted as if talking to the doctor. ‘Can’t let something like the cold stop you doing what you want, can you?’
‘No,’ said the young woman. ‘I suppose not.’
They sat, then, in silence, these women of different generations both looking out at the sea that rolled back and forth, back and forth.
The young woman wondered for a moment if she should go home now that her solitude had been interrupted, but no sooner had the thought entered her mind than she asked herself what the point would be. Though it was true that she was no longer alone here, at least it was only her flesh that was cold. At home it would be her heart and soul that would be chilled by the reality that he no longer lived with her, that he was nothing more than a ghost in the flat, made up of memories. And so, to make conversation, she said in a quiet voice, ‘A moon in the daytime doesn’t seem quite right, does it?’
The old woman shook her head and pursed her near-blue lips. ‘But we can’t have the summer if we don’t have the winter. I remember when I was a little girl I used to think that winter would never end. It seemed like I was waking up in the dark and coming home in the dark, never seeing any sunlight at all. I couldn’t wait to get out and play again. And then I thought the same when the summer came. I couldn’t even imagine a day that I’d have to wear more than a cotton dress. But, course, the seasons change, don’t they? Nothing lasts forever.’ She adjusted the headscarf she was wearing and looked at the young woman as if for the first time. ‘Do you mind me talking to you?’ she asked. ‘It’s just I don’t see no one all day and I’ve got to talk to someone else I worry I’ll never speak again. My throat goes all dry, see.’
‘I don’t mind,’ the young woman said, and in an instant heard his voice again: I don’t love you anymore. Each heavy word carried a bruise if its own and she wondered, If nothing lasts forever, would this pain in her heart cease at some point? And if so, when? In the fresh green of spring? The sticky heat of summer? The dull gold of autumn? The thought of still feeling this way in a year’s time filled her with a bone-aching dread and she decided that a heartache in winter must be the cruellest of them all.
‘Course, what we forget,’ the old woman beside her said, clearing her throat, ‘is that it takes time. The seasons, I mean. We don’t wake up one day and it’s summer outside, do we? First the mornings get lighter, then it starts getting warmer, then the evenings get longer. It doesn’t happen overnight.’
‘When do you think it will get warmer?’ she asked.
‘Like I said, it’ll take time. Can’t rush it, can we? Give it a few months, we’ll soon feel the difference.’
Nodding in agreement, the young woman stared ahead at the pearly day-moon and imagined the seasons changing before her. It would be weeks, months even, before she’d see any change. But change would come, wouldn’t it? It was inevitable. That was nature, after all. And if it happened around her, wouldn’t it happen within her, too?
After the old woman and the dog left, the young woman stayed at the bench and watched as the day-moon became the night-moon and the stars pierced the dark sky with light. Change was already in the air.
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