‘He doesn’t know anything. He didn’t know her. He spent all his time off at work and — he wouldn’t be any use.’
I can feel her anger simmering away, barely beneath the surface.
‘Do you mind if I say something?’
‘No, go on.’
‘Making all the decisions, it’s too much. I know it might seem easier—’
‘It is.’
‘But it’s not.’ I lift the mask from my face, hold it in my hand a moment. ‘I mean, say you set everything up … you have the funeral you think she wanted … what about after? You’re left angry at your dad because you let him drift through it.’
Amber glares down at her little scrap of crochet, turning it around and about.
‘You’ve got to plug him into this.’
She looks up and tautens her mouth.
‘And it’s not … it’s not fair … to ask you to do this, but … he needs guiding through it.’
I’m sure she’s listening to me.
‘He’s got — what — twenty-five years’ worth of life with your mum?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Quarter of a century. That’s a lot to ignore.’
‘Yeah,’ she says, reluctantly.
‘Even tiny little choices. Like, what music did he and she like? What—’ another pull on the oxygen ‘—what were they like before you were born?’
‘Yeah—’ I can see her eyes mulling over the possibilities.
‘Ask him: get three possible readings. Even if he says he can’t. Give him a day to do it. And you can decide between you, yeah?’
‘Only he won’t know that.’
‘But then — he has to go and ask his friends. His friends who knew your mum. It’ll be his task. You just set him off.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ This seems to ease her brow a little.
‘You might be surprised. It’s a great … it’s a great opportunity. For everyone to remember her. In ways you might not have thought of.’
‘Hallo, lovey!’ says Sheila, waggling a bunch of lunch cards as she breezes into my room. ‘Have you chosen your lunch yet?’
‘Mm, yes — could I try a bit of the cod, please? No promises.’
‘Oh right,’ she says, swiping up my card and looking it up and down. ‘Bit more adventurous today?’
‘Yeah, something like that. I’ve just had Amber come to see me. We had a chat.’
‘So I saw — how’s she doing?’
‘She’s a sweet girl. So much on her plate.’
‘Hasn’t she? But she’s got her head screwed on. A real smasher. One of the lovely things about this job, you get to see the real good in people.’
‘Yeah. Sad to see her so young, though.’
Sheila bites the edge of the lunch cards. It dawns on me that she must see worse. Much, much worse. ‘Still,’ she says, ‘I’m really proud of you for taking the time to try a bit of mixing. I told you it’s a tonic, didn’t I, meeting a few different people?’
‘Yeah, yeah, it’s been nice.’
‘It’s good to have visitors now and again. What are you up to on your A to Z? You’ll nearly have it finished by now, I should think.’
‘I’m on G.’
‘G? Blimey, talk about taking your time. What have you got for G then?’ she says, frowning out the window. ‘There’s gut, groin …’
‘Gonads.’
‘Oh my God, it’s all the rude stuff, isn’t it?’
‘We used to have a game at school called Gonad.’
‘Oh, right?’
‘You know, that age where you think every vaguely anatomical word is a swear word.’
‘Little boys, they’re awful for it. Terrible gigglers.’
‘Yeah, well we used to think gonad was this majorly sophisticated swear word, and we had this game where we had to shout it out in class. Well, someone would say it quietly, then the next person would have to say it a bit louder, and the next one even louder, you know.’
‘Oh, right. So we know what kind of a little boy you were then.’
G
Gut
‘I’M GETTING A GUT,’ I say, looking sadly into your bedroom mirror. ‘I never thought I’d get a gut.’
‘You haven’t got a gut.’
‘I have. Look, it’s there.’
‘Where?’
‘There.’
‘That’s a stomach.’
‘It’s a gut.’
‘Look, I’m a nurse. I’m practically qualified. It’s a stomach. You’re as neurotic as your sister, do you know that?’
‘No I’m not.’
You hold up the iron and blow a dismissive cloud of steam at me, before dumping it back down on the ironing board and continuing to nose around the buttons of your uniform.
I turn and indulge myself in another look at my ugliness. I was always proud when I was a teenager to be able to hitch up my T-shirt, and see — well, never quite a six-pack, but at least a pure, taut line from belt buckle to breastbone. I could suck it in and make a cave. See myself as a skeleton. Is vanity so bad? I just want to look my best, and stay that way for ever.
You finish with the iron, and hang your uniform over the wardrobe door before taking your familiar position before the mirror.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I hate getting older.’
‘Well, twenty-eight,’ you tut. ‘Ten years past your prime.’
‘I hate being diabetic. It makes me feel old.’
‘Old’s got nothing to do with it. And you’re not fat.’
‘It’s not like I wanted to have diabetes,’ I say, jiggling my love handles, and then smoothing them with flat palms, as if that’s going to get rid of them. ‘But then part of me used to think it was quite nice to have a thing. Is that bad?’
You do a kind of Gallic shrug with your mouth. ‘Everyone wants a bit of attention once in a while.’
‘Yeah, but I used to play up to it really badly. I mean, really badly. I wouldn’t eat properly, and I’d miss out on shots, even if I was feeling ropey.’
You say nothing, draw your fingernails through your hair, and glance up at me in the mirror.
‘It started to feel like, the more tired I felt, the happier I was. And the thinner the better. You can get to enjoy that stuff.’
‘But you’re not doing that now though, are you?’ you say, turning and looking directly at me. ‘You’re not missing shots now.’
‘No.’ Mostly no.
‘Because I’ve already watched my dad destroy his life, and I don’t intend to watch my boyfriend do it too.’
‘Look,’ I say, grabbing my gut and tugging it at you. ‘Does it look like it?’
‘You’re not fat! You’re man-shaped.’ You come over and lay your hands under my shirt. ‘I love your tummy. I love you.’
‘Yeah, well.’ I’m unconvinced.
‘Anyway,’ you say, slapping my bum and sitting down to pull on a pair of tights, ‘stop being so down on yourself.’ You shimmy your thumbs upwards to distribute the denier, and snap the elastic at the waistband. ‘If you’re getting fat anywhere, it’s in your head. Why don’t you go out tonight? Go and do something. You haven’t been out with your mates for ages.’
I dump myself down on the bed and wrinkle my nose.
‘I don’t fancy it.’
‘Give Mal a ring. He’ll be glad to see you. He thinks I’m the queen bitch from hell, so he’ll be pleased I’ve let you off the leash for five minutes.’
‘No he doesn’t.’
‘He does, because you haven’t been in touch with him, and he thinks that’s because I won’t let you.’
‘I don’t know, it’d be nice if it was just pubbing and chatting, or going to a gig or whatever, but there’s always the clubbing afterwards. I can’t be bothered, you know?’