Authors: James Rice
Soon after that the doorbell rang. It was Old Mrs Jenkins’ niece, Gretna. Old Mrs Jenkins is dead. Another victim of the winter, Gretna said. Too much time in that draughty attic. Apparently Gretna comes over every year for Boxing Day supper and usually Mrs Jenkins hears her bike roaring from the dual carriageway and is waiting on the doorstep for her to arrive, but this year she was nowhere to be seen. She wouldn’t even answer the doorbell. Apparently when Gretna peered in through the letterbox she fainted, right there on the doorstep. The smell just knocked her out. And Gretna’s a big woman.
Mum went for a lie-down once Gretna had gone. Mrs Jenkins had been her first ever Skipdale customer, the one who’d first recommended her hairdressing skills. The two hadn’t spoken for a couple of years now but Mum still had a soft spot for her. She didn’t come down till dinnertime. We had turkey sandwiches. Mum laid out stuffing and cranberry and horseradish in little bowls across the table but we both ate our sandwiches dry, with just a little salt and butter. I could tell she’d been crying but I didn’t mention it.
19:30 came and went but my father never arrived home from work. Mum said we could always leave my father’s ticket on the mantelpiece. He could catch us up if he wanted. If he had time.
We arrived at Skipdale High at 19:45. A group of sixth-formers manned the gates – high-visibility jackets, P.E. whistles bit between their teeth. They waved us over to a space in the corner of the field. It was a muddy patch and Mum had concerns about the BMW’s paintwork but she parked up there anyway. We hurried across the field to the sports hall, as fast as Mum’s heels would allow.
The hall was dark when we entered. Silent. Rows of parents stared up at the stage from a sea of plastic chairs. Mum scanned for empty seats but the room was packed. I searched amongst the crowd but it was impossible to find you in the darkness. There was a silence in the room that can only be described as The Calm Before the Storm.
The stage was T-shaped, a catwalk running out through the crowd. A spotlight flickered and there was Angela Hargrove, halfway up the catwalk, dressed as a scantily clad Christmas Fairy, perched upon a Christmas tree. (The tree was actually a stepladder with two green cardboard tree-shapes glued either side but in theatre you have to suspend your disbelief.) Angela welcomed everybody to this year’s Christmas Dance Fantastical. She said that this year Santa was going to bring a very special present for all the boys and girls of Skipdale High. (It’s actually December the twenty-eighth but again: suspension of disbelief.) There was a group of sixth-formers in the corner of the hall, leaning against the monkey bars. Mum stared at each of them in turn but they were too busy glaring up at Angela to notice us. Then a dance remix of ‘Santa Baby’ kicked in and Angela skittered down the stepladder to the front of the catwalk-stage. Lights flashed. Six girls in C.D.F. leotards poured on from either side, strutting up the catwalk, circling Angela. It was hard to tell if any of the dancers was Sarah, they were all moving so quickly and the lights were flashing so dramatically. All I could make out was red Lycra and flesh.
‘Santa Baby’ ended. The audience applauded. Angela descended the catwalk, disappearing stage right. One of the sixth-formers noticed us and directed us to seats in separate corners of the back row. Mum mouthed that she’d meet me by the car after the show. Another song began, the six Vultures continuing their backing dance. I realised that none of them could be my sister because my sister’s only part was during ‘Screemin Boi’, which was the grand finale.
I scanned the crowd again. In one particularly bright flash of light I noticed Ian, crouching stage left, glaring up at the dancers. In the next flash I saw you, sitting in the row behind. From then on I kept my eyes fixed on that point. Each time the spotlights crossed the catwalk I could just make you out, Goose beside you, whispering into your ear. You were smiling. Occasionally you were laughing.
There were themes to the Fantastical’s various dances. Some were Christmas-related, others I think were popular songs, most of which I didn’t recognise. The backing dancers all wore C.D.F. leotards but Angela Hargrove had a range of different costumes. ‘Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer’ began and Angela took to the stage once again – fairy-lit antlers, diamanté-encrusted nose. Another monologue: this time about her red nose, her responsibilities to Santa, how the other reindeers never let her join in with their reindeer games. Ian was watching from the very edge of his seat. He was practically foaming at the mouth. You still had Goose at your ear, only now he’d put his arm round you. You weren’t smiling any more.
Then the Rudolph remix kicked in and a swarm of dancers flooded the stage, the lights strobing on/off/on/off/on/off, transforming everything into a series of images, segmented by blackness: Angela dropping to the floor. BLACK. Angela, jerking her head back. BLACK. The swarm of backing dancers, pouring in behind her. BLACK. The backing dancers forming a line. BLACK. The backing dancers kicking their legs out. BLACK. Angela writhing across the floor, nose held high. BLACK. A sea of parents’ faces, staring hang-mouthed at the stage. BLACK. Ian, grinning, straining to see up Angela’s skirt from the side of the stage. BLACK. Goose, huddling close to you. BLACK. Goose, nuzzling your neck. BLACK. You, pushing Goose away. BLACK. Goose’s tongue against your neck. BLACK.
You, standing.
BLACK.
You, pushing Goose down into his seat.
BLACK.
You, clutching your sunglassed eyes.
BLACK.
You, dragging your hood up over your head as you step through the crowd to a doorway, stage left.
BLACK.
And that’s when I found myself standing, following. It was hard, crossing the hall in the strobing lights but at least with the dancing nobody seemed to notice me. I headed to the doorway, stage left.
The doorway led to the Lipton Building. The light was dim but constant, the Rudolph remix a dull hum.
The corridor was empty. I checked every classroom till I reached Miss Hayes’ office at the end but you were nowhere to be seen.
I retraced my steps.
It was only when I’d lapped the corridor a third time that I noticed the caretaker’s closet, the door slightly ajar.
I pressed my cheek to the wood. I shut my eyes. I could hear you breathing inside.
I considered going back to the hall, sitting across from Mum and waiting for the show to end. I considered going out to the car park, waiting it out with the BMW.
Then I opened the door.
There you were, huddled in the corner by the brooms, head in your hands.
‘Fuck off,’ you said.
I told you it was me, Greg. You shuffled a little, trying to block out the light with your folded arms.
‘Oh,’ you said. ‘OK.’
You shuffled back a little further.
‘Well, if you’re going to come in, come in.’
I asked if you were OK.
‘Just come in.’
I stepped inside. It was only a small closet and stepping inside meant my knees were right beside your face.
‘Shut the door.’
I asked why.
‘I can’t deal with the light right now,’ you said. ‘Just shut the door.’
I shut the door. BLACK. I stood for a while. Then I crouched. I thought about sitting but there wasn’t room, what with the piles of mop heads and bleach bottles behind me.
‘It’s just my eyes,’ you said. ‘The lights.’
I said it was OK.
I could feel your breath, warm against my arm. Here we were in the caretaker’s closet, in darkness once again. I always seem to lose my sight when I’m with you. I wanted to ask about Goose. I wanted to ask about your father. I wanted to ask if you found your present. I wanted to tell you about Finners Island, about my plan for us to run away. But I didn’t.
I don’t know how long we stayed like that, you huddled there with me crouched over you. By the end my legs ached. Music hummed from the hall. I could make out the odd lyric of ‘Screemin Boi’. Then it stopped. You didn’t say anything, you just breathed. You sniffed a few times. Everything smelt of disinfectant.
Then suddenly you stood.
‘I’d best get going,’ you said.
I asked if you were OK again. I was aware of repeating myself.
‘Just a migraine,’ you said. ‘Happens sometimes.’
Light flooded back into the room. You were standing in the doorway. You might have been staring at me. I don’t know. You were wearing your sunglasses.
‘Thanks for checking on me,’ you said. ‘I am OK. Honest.’
I nodded.
‘I guess I’ll see you at the party.’
I asked what party.
‘Goose’s party. New Year’s.’
I said I hadn’t been invited.
‘Everyone’s invited.’
I didn’t know what to say to that so I just crouched there, staring up at you, not saying anything.
‘Whatever,’ you said. ‘Might see you there.’
You turned, let the door shut.
BLACK.
It came again this morning, the rain. The steady hiss. The house has seemed so quiet since Sarah’s rehearsals have finished and it was nice just to listen to it, battering the windows, gurgling over the brim of the gutter, spilling and slapping on the pavement out back.
Mum said it’s supposed to rain at funerals. ‘Washes all sins away.’ She was fixing her fascinator in the dining-room mirror. She bought it especially – black lace, embroidered with tiny black roses. Across the road lay Artie Sampson’s inflatable Santa, a crumpled red puddle on his path. At first Artie had tried to fix the gash with parcel tape, but each time he got it standing the tape’d peel and it’d bow again and Artie’d sink to his knees, clutching what’s left of his hair. I considered telling him that duct tape would be a better idea (Nan and I would sometimes use duct tape on outdoor cracks, where parcel tape wasn’t quite enough) but I knew Mum would kill me so I kept quiet. Since the rain came he’s given up. Occasionally his face appears at the window, but that’s it.
Mum asked if I was going to get ready. I told her I was ready. I was wearing my school blazer. It’s the only black jacket I own. I unstitched the Skipdale badge so there’s no way to tell it’s a school blazer.
Mum gave me a glance of The Eyebrow.
‘Wouldn’t you rather wear your new Christmas clothes?’ she said.
I told Mum my Christmas clothes are grey. Are you allowed to wear grey at a funeral?
Mum said grey was fine. She’d cut my hair last night, blow-dried it into a bowl, managing to keep all the curls down. She wanted me to look smart for once. Was that too much to ask?
Mum was in a good mood today. The past couple of days have been hard for her. I went over to Goose’s on Monday, to stake out the place before the party, and when I got back Mum was in the car, crying, ‘Suspicious Minds’ roaring from the speakers. Artie Sampson’s Father Christmas was half deflated over the road, still with Mum’s hairdressing scissors jutting from its belly. It was only when the car battery died and Elvis cut out that she finally stumbled over to the house.
My father and I waited in the hall. For a full minute she just stood there, smiling from the doorway. My father asked if she was OK. She nodded. He asked if she’d like a cup of coffee. Again, she nodded.
‘I’ll make it,’ she said.
She turned to lock the car. I don’t know if it was the flat battery or that Mum was just pressing the wrong button on her key fob but it wouldn’t lock. After four or five tries she dropped the keys on the porch floor. Two steps into the hallway she collapsed.
It turned out Mum had been to the Hamptons’ that morning. Ursula bought the couch. The exact same white Italian leather couch. The exact same product number from the exact same catalogue. Apparently it looks fabulous in Ursula’s living room, which is twice the size of our living room. It has more Wow Factor than Mum could ever dream of. It’ll be the talk of the Hamptons’ New Year’s party.
My father chewed his cheek. He left Mum on the floor whilst he went to the kitchen for the coffee. There was no Colombian Supremo left so he had to use instant. He filled two mugs and brought them through to the hall. Then he knelt beside Mum, lifting her head, forcing her to sip from one of the mugs. Coffee ran down her chin, joining the trail of snot and mascara.
He told her it was OK. He told her he’d had a couple of new clients recently. He told Mum we could afford a little redecorating. She could start the room over again. She could decorate a brand new room if she wanted to. Whatever she thought best. Mum clutched the sleeves of his shirt. She sobbed into his lap. My father assured her that everything would be OK.
We left for the funeral at 15:40. The service was at St Mary’s. Mum and I sat in the second row. There was only Gretna and her sister Molly in the first row but Mum said that’s how it was meant to be, family only. There were others dotted around, old ladies mostly. Artie Sampson and his wife appeared, taking a pew at the back. They ignored us and we ignored them.
For the first five minutes the vicar spoke about Mrs Jenkins, about how she was a well-loved member of the community and a regular at the church and how concerned they all were when she stopped showing up for service. He said Mrs Jenkins had had a lot of tragedy in her life but she fought through it all. She was a fighter. Then he spoke about Jesus, about the tragedy Jesus had had in his life. He spoke about Jesus for about half an hour. Then the funeral ended.
It was still raining as we left. We ran to the car. I wasn’t bothered about getting wet but Mum was worried about my hair and my Christmas clothes so I stooped under the umbrella with her. The spokes kept catching my scalp.
Mum said she didn’t want to be the first to arrive at the wake so we waited in the car for a while, watching the rain. She switched on the CD player. I thought she was going to play ‘Suspicious Minds’ but instead she skipped to ‘Are You Lonesome Tonight?’ She stared up at the church. I could tell she was thinking about Nan. Church always makes her think of Nan, that’s why she never goes. We listened to the entire song, start to finish, twice, before she switched off the CD player and started the engine.