Closer

Maxine Linnell

Five Leaves Publications

Closer

by Maxine Linnell

Published in 2011 by Five Leaves Publications

PO Box 8786, Nottingham NG1 9AW

www.fiveleaves.co.uk

© Maxine Linnell, 2011

ISBN: 978-1-907869-42-6

Five Leaves acknowledges financial support from Arts Council England

Cover design: Darius Hinks

Typesetting and design: Four Sheets Design and Print

Thanks go to Ross Bradshaw, Penny Luithlen and David Belbin for helping with this book.

My son Benn died suddenly in November 2010. His life continues to be an inspiration; he was a huge support and a very good friend. Without him, and without the support of others,
Closer
wouldn't have been written or published. My thanks go to Kate and Liam Burlinson, Dave and Angie Linnell, John Beavan and Gayna Pelham for being there, and Jane Purkiss, Kate Ruse, Rosemary Clarke, Marilyn Ricci, Sue Clark, Ann Young and so many others for their continued support. Thanks also to The Laura Centre and Epilepsy Bereaved, who have been a lifeline.

Maxine Linnell trained as a psychotherapist and later gained at distinction in the Nottingham Trent University MA in Creative Writing. She lives in Leicester where she chairs Leicester Writers Club, an organisation of published writers. Her first novel,
Vintage
, was also published by Five Leaves.

Monday. I come home after a crap day at school. I let myself in through the side door and go through the alleyway we share with Mrs. Thing next door. It's cool and dark and smells damp. As I come out into the sunshine in the back garden I can hear them. Rowing. My mum and dad. 

I can see them through the open kitchen window. Dad's sitting at the kitchen table with his back to me, and I can just see Mum standing with her back to the cooker. Mum's voice is loud, on the way to top volume. 

“I come home early for a change, and you've done nothing. The breakfast stuff's still not cleared off the bloody table, for heaven's sake. And you said you'd do the shopping. I left you a list, look!” 

I open the back door carefully and go into the hall. Only words so far, there's no plates flying or anything interesting. I hang around to listen. 

The kitchen door is shut. That's a bad sign. I'm trying to work out what stage the row's at. Sometimes I can do an early intervention. I can go in the kitchen like nothing's happening and talk about my day and ask for some money. They'll gawp at me and Mum will tell me I've only had my allowance since Saturday and what the hell have I spent it all on. Then they might forget the row. 

But this one's has been going on for a while. I take off my trainers and drop them, clunk, clunk, on the wooden floor, then wait for a reaction. It doesn't come. 

“I don't care about that. Go out and get a job!” 

Her sentences get shorter and louder. And his get longer, but low and too quiet to hear. 

“Any job. It doesn't matter. Just get out there!” 

She'll scream, then cry, then he'll hug her. Then they used to go up in their bedroom and do something disgusting you shouldn't know about your own parents, but you could hear it even if you tried not to. Especially me, in the room across the landing from theirs. 

But the part in the bedroom hasn't happened in the last few weeks. Now, after the crying she acts distant and cold and won't talk, and dad looks tortured. Silences and explosions. I'd rather have the rows. At least you know they'll be over soon. But I don't have any choice. I'm only a kid round here. 

I walk past the kitchen door, making enough noise to be sure they'll hear me and feel guilty. George is in the front room. He's nearly nine, the littlest. 

“Plugged into the machine, are you Georgy?” 

He's on the play station and his whole body's focussed. He doesn't look up. 

“Don't call me Georgy. I'm Geo!” 

“That's a girl's name. There's someone in my class called Jo. Short for Josephine.” It's not true, but it'll wind him up. 

His eyes don't leave the screen, not even a flicker. 

“Ge-o, scumbag. Get it?” 

“Okay, little bro. Don't stress. Mum and Dad at it again?” 

He shrugs his shoulders. “Yeah, suppose.” 

I grin at him and go past the back room, the room that was Dad's darkroom before he went digital and my art room and the only junk room in the house. All the old, shadowy things settle in there. It's the last hiding place from Mum's makeovers and declutters. I head up the stairs on the new blue carpet, spongy, with that chemical smell. 

Hannah's door is half open, and she's lying on her bed in a baggy grey sweatshirt and black jeans. She's reading a book and you can't see her face for hair. I've almost forgotten what she looks like. She's finished her exams now and she's moping, waiting for the results. She was soaking up all the attention, so I'm glad it's all over. 

She's eating as usual. Her jaws must get tired, or maybe she doesn't bother to chew. 

“Mel. I can see you! Always hanging about behind doors.” She doesn't like being looked at. 

“A-mazing! You can see me from behind all that frizz! Not finished your breakfast yet?” 

She mumbles something and I head on to the bathroom to have a look in the mirror. I had a sandwich at lunch, it's sure to show. My stomach looks huge. I'll never get into the size eights. Go in my room, shut the door behind me and lean back on it. Peace. 

Then I hear them still going on through the floor. The kitchen's right under my room at the back of the house. Mum's on top volume now. 

“You haven't had a contract for months!” 

There's Dad's voice in between, a low murmur I can't catch. 

“Fashion photographer! What kind of job's that? I'm working all hours in that bloody school! You go off for weeks, then you come back with new clothes and a tan and I'm exhausted! And I've no idea who you've been with, what bit of skirt you've picked up along the way. At least you could have the decency not to look so pleased with yourself when you get home!” 

His calm voice goes on for ages now. 

“You're a waste of space, Steve, that's all you'll ever be! I don't know why I married you!” 

Mum is so emotional. And she's the oldest, much older than Dad. I thought it was people my age who were supposed to be emotional. Why can't she grow up? 

I put on some volume of my own, loud enough to drown them out. The music powers out of the speakers. It is hot, there's no air in here. I open the window. I love my room, it's so empty, no clutter. There's my bed, under the window with an orange duvet, my wardrobe, a desk with drawers, my netbook and the TV. And a shelf for my books. Nothing's out of place. Next job is clearing out the stuff I had when I was a kid, still in boxes under the bed. Hannah sneers at me for being a little housewife. But I feel good in here. I don't care what she thinks. She's such an old cow. 

I wish Raj would text. I texted him at four o'clock, but he hasn't replied yet. Do I have to wear a huge badge saying “I fancy you”? Chloe's out of contact too. I play with the mobile for a bit, then throw it down on the bed. I could turn it off, see if I care. That would show her. She's got such a brilliant life, she doesn't need me. But I know I won't do that. I lie on my back and look at the ceiling. There's marks there where I threw up an old tennis ball to bounce off the ceiling until Mum shouted at me. I count the marks, make faces out of the shapes. 

When I think about it, I'm the only sane one in this family. I don't get on with any of them, except Dad. Mum says it's like having four kids in the house instead of three. Dad and me, we get on great. We're close, really close. He even likes my music. I wonder if he likes this track. Must be able to hear it down there, with the beat and everything. I love it when Dad's around. 

On top of the music I hear the scrape of a chair on the kitchen floor and then a few seconds later the front door slams and I know he's gone.

Tuesday and it's still hot. I meet Chloe at the school gates and she's looking stressed, like she's lost something. Chloe's my best friend. We've hung out together since the first day at secondary. I was the only one from my primary school, and so was Chloe, from hers. Mrs. Fisher had the bright idea of putting us together. 

I didn't think much of her to look at. She was in the wrong clothes. Nothing was new, and not like the school list everyone had. I was wearing all the new uniform and stuff, and carrying this huge new bag, and I was sweating in the scarf and the jacket. 

Chloe never cared about anything like that. She grinned at me. 

“What's your name, flower?” 

And that was it, friends. I told her I was Melody, not Melanie like everyone thought, and she said best to tell people I was Mel, and she dragged the jacket and the scarf off me and stuffed them into the new bag before I could tell her not to. I could breathe. 

“What are you smiling at?” she says now, interrupting me in the middle of remembering. 

“I'm thinking about when we got to this place on the first day, and we were the only ones on our own.” 

“Yeah, I got stuck with you,” she says, smiling so I know she doesn't mean it. “Do you ever wish you were somebody else?” We're heading into school now, everyone like this big swarm of bees buzzing in one direction. Inside the building we all split into different streams, Chloe and me up the main stairs. 

She doesn't want me to answer, I can tell because I know her so well even though there's things I couldn't even tell her, private things. But I know what I'm thinking: I'm wishing I was her. 

“Sometimes, I wish I had your family instead of mine,” says Chloe, breaking into my thoughts. 

I'm so shocked I stop in the middle of the stairs and everyone has to flow round me. 

“You want to be in my family?” 

“Your house is so sorted and tidy, and your Dad's really interesting and cool. George is okay even if he does live on Planet Zog, and at least Hannah's quiet.” 

I'm listening to this like I'm hearing about people I've never met. I head on up the stairs and Chloe follows. 

“You're crazy,” I say. “Your family's cool. You're all kind of mixed up together and nobody shuts their doors and your mum and dad are really friendly, like they even enjoy being with each other and all that.” 

“Whose family are you talking about?” Chloe says. We're in the classroom now and she slings her bag on her desk, and pens and papers and rubbish spill out but she doesn't seem to notice. She turns her back on the mess and folds her arms. “I can't stand them. There's no space, I can't breathe.” 

“Let's swap,” I say. “Do you think they'd notice?” 

“Hmm, not sure.” Chloe looks me up and down and I copy how she's standing with her arms folded tight and her face scrunched up. 

“Do I look like you?” I say, and she has to laugh. 

I've often thought I'd like to be in Chloe's family instead of mine, and right now I'd be seriously happy to join Chloe's family. But I wouldn't want her to find out what mine's really like, not in a zillion years, even though I don't know what it's like myself right now. Confused or what? Right. 

I can't stand any of them. Except for Dad. He's the only one who understands. 

“Come over to mine for tea tomorrow,” says Chloe. “At least they'll behave with you around. Mum's going to cut my hair, she promised.” 

“Right. Do you think she'd do mine?”