And so suddenly Maureen was like my girl, because she got it, and because she felt the music rage too, and I wanted to say the right thing to her. “You need a holiday.”
I said it because I wanted to be sympathetic, but then I remembered Cosmic Tony, and I realized that now Cosmic Tony had the money.
“Hey. What about that? Why not?” I said. “Let’s all take Maureen on holiday somewhere.” Martin burst out laughing.
“Yeah, right,” said Jess. “What are we? Volunteers for like an old folks’ home or something?”
“Maureen’s not old,” I said. “How old are you, Maureen?”
“I’m fifty-one,” she said.
“OK, not an old folks’ home. A boring folks’ home.”
“And what makes you the most fascinating person on the planet?” Martin said.
“I don’t look like that, for a start. Anyways, I thought you were on my side?”
And almost unnoticed, amid all the laughter and the general scorn, Maureen had started to cry.
“I’m sorry, Maureen,” said Martin. “I wasn’t being ungallant. I just couldn’t imagine the four of us sitting around a swimming pool on our sun loungers.”
“No, no,” said Maureen. “I took no offense. Not much, anyway. And I know nobody wants to go on holiday with me, and that’s fine. I just got a bit weepy because JJ suggested it. It’s been a long… Nobody’s… I haven’t… It was just nice of him, that’s all.”
“Oh, fucking hell,” said Martin quietly. Now, “Oh, fucking hell” can mean a lot of different things, as you know, but there was no ambiguity here; we all understood. What Martin meant by “Oh, fucking hell” in this context, if I can explain an obscenity with an obscenity, is that he was fucked. Because what kind of asshole was going to say to Maureen, you know, “Yeah, well, it’s the thought that counts. Hope that’s enough for you.”
And like five days later we were on a plane to Tenerife.
Maureen
It was their decision, not mine. I didn’t feel that I had the right to decide, not really, even though a quarter of the money did belong to me. I was the one who’d suggested the holiday in the first place, to JJ, when we were talking about Cosmic Tony, so I didn’t think it was right that I should join in when they took a vote on it. I think what I did is, I abstained.
It wasn’t as if there was a big argument, though. Everyone was all for it. The only debate was about whether to go now or in the summer, because of the weather, but there was a general feeling that, what with one thing and another, it was better to go now, before Valentine’s Day. For a moment they thought we could afford the Caribbean, Barbados or somewhere, until Martin pointed out that the money we had would have to cover Matty’s time in the care centre as well.
“Let’s go without Maureen, then,” said Jess, and I was hurt, for a moment, until it turned out she was joking.
I can’t remember the last time I wept because I was happy. I’m not saying that because I want people to feel sorry for me; it’s just that it was a strange feeling. When JJ said he had an idea, and then explained what it was, I didn’t even allow myself to think for a moment that it would ever come to anything.
It was funny, but up to that point, we hadn’t really ever been nice to each other. You’d think that would have been a part of the story, considering how we’d met. You’d think this would be the story of four people who met because they were unhappy, and wanted to help each other. But it hadn’t been up until then, not at all, nothing like, unless you count me and Martin sitting on Jess’s head. And even that was being cruel to be kind, rather than kind plain and simple. Up until then it had been the story of four people who met because they were unhappy and then swore at each other. Three of them swore, anyway.
I was making little sobbing noises that embarrassed everyone, myself included.
“F— hell,” said Jess. “It’s only a week in the poxy Canary Isles. I’ve been there. It’s just beaches and clubs and that.”
I wanted to tell Jess that I hadn’t even seen an English beach since Matty left school; they used to take them to Brighton every year, and I went with them once or twice. I didn’t say anything, though. I may not know the weight of many things, but I could feel the weight of that one, so I kept it to myself. You know that things aren’t going well for you when you can’t even tell people the simplest fact about your life, just because they’ll presume you’re asking them to feel sorry for you. I suppose it’s why you feel so far away from everyone, in the end; anything you can think of to tell them just ends up making them feel terrible.
I want to describe every moment of the journey, because it seemed so exciting, but that would probably be a mistake, too. If you’re like everybody else then you’ll already know what an airport looks like, what it sounds and smells like, and if I tell you about it, then it would be just another way of saying that I haven’t seen the sea for ten years. I’d got a one-year passport from the post office, and even that caused too much excitement, because I saw one or two people from the church in the queue, and they know I’m not a big traveler. One of the people I saw was Bridgid, the woman who didn’t invite me to the New Year’s Eve party I didn’t go to; one day, I thought, I’ll tell her how she helped me to take my first trip abroad. I’d really have to know how much things weighed before I tried that, though.
You probably know that you sit in a row of three. They let me sit in the window seat, because they’d all been on planes before. Martin sat in the middle and JJ sat next to him on the aisle for the first few minutes. After a little while, Jess had to swap places with JJ, because she had an argument with the woman sitting next to her about the wee bag of nuts they give you, and there was some shouting and carrying on. Another thing you probably know is that there’s a terrible noise when you take off, and sometimes the plane shakes in the air. Well of course I didn’t know any of those things, and my stomach turned to water, and Martin had to hold my hand and talk to me.
And you probably also know that when you look out of an aeroplane window and see the world shrink like that, you can’t help but think about the whole of your life, from the beginning until where you are now, and everyone you’ve ever known. And you’ll know that thinking about those things makes you feel grateful to God for providing them, and angry with Him for not helping you to understand them better, and so you end up in a terrible muddle and needing to talk to a priest. I decided I wouldn’t sit in the window seat on the way back. I don’t know how these jet-set people who have to fly once or twice a year cope, I really don’t.
Not having Matty with me was like missing a leg. It felt that strange. But I also enjoyed the lightness of it, so it probably wasn’t at all like missing a leg, because I don’t suppose people who’ve had a leg taken off do enjoy the lightness of it very much. And I was going to say that it was much easier to move around without Matty, but it’s much harder to move around with only one leg, isn’t it? So maybe it would be more truthful to say that being on the plane without Matty was like being without a third leg, because a third leg would feel heavy, I expect, and it would get in the way, and you would be relieved if it was taken off. I missed him most when the plane was doing its shaking; I thought I was going to die, and I hadn’t said goodbye to him. I panicked, then.
We didn’t fall out on the first night. Everyone was happy then, even Jess. The hotel was nice, and clean, and we all had our own toilets and bathrooms, which I hadn’t been expecting. And when I opened the shutters, the light poured into the room like a torrent of water through a burst dam, and it nearly knocked me over. My knees buckled for a moment, and I had to lean against the wall. The sea was there too, but it wasn’t fierce and strong, like the light; it just sat quiet and blue, and made tiny little murmuring noises.