Whispers Through a Megaphone (16 page)

“She hasn’t seen you so far.”

“Why don’t you do it?”

“I’m six feet tall.”

“So?”

“I’m twenty-one.”

“So?”

“You’re less visible.”

“No I’m not.”

Matthew snatches
Doctor Who Adventures
out of Alfie’s hands. “Please,” he says. “I’ll give you a tenner and that’s my final offer.”

The boy’s eyes light up. “Do you love her?”

“What?”

“Do you want to go out with her?”

“Of course not. One day I’ll explain, okay?”

Alfie gets out of bed. He needs the money for an Amy Pond action figure to go with Doctor Who and River Song. He also wants a Tardis and an army of Daleks, but he knows that he has to stop somewhere because I want doesn’t get, money doesn’t grow on trees and his parents are not made of it. He puts on brown trousers, his new shirt, a bow tie and a tweed jacket. “Do I look like Doctor Who?” he says.

“You look like a proper Time Lord,” Matthew says.

“Thanks. Can I borrow your hair wax?”

“If you’re quick.”

A young man and a seven-year-old boy, driving through town. They sing along to Oasis in fake Manchester accents, something about lights being blinding. The man laughs. The boy laughs. Then the car stops.

“I’ll wait here,” Matthew says, handing Alfie a postcard.

“What if she sees me?”

“Just say hello.”

“Okay. Give me the tenner.”

“You can have it when you get back.”

“Now or never.”

Matthew slaps a ten-pound note on the dashboard. “Go,” he says.

Alfie climbs out, walks along the street, turns the corner and enters Beckford Gardens. He wanders up to the front door of number 7, almost slipping on the wet pavement.
I’m doing this for you, Amy Pond. Soon we’ll be together. I’ll rescue you from Toys R Us. No, I’m not buying a Rory figure. We don’t need Rory
. Without bothering to look at the photo or what’s written on the other side (he has given up trying to read these things—the previous ones made no sense), he opens the letterbox and pushes the postcard through it. He turns and walks away and there are footsteps behind him, footsteps moving quickly. He stops. It’s a bright-red man. Running after him. Shouting “Wait, please wait!”

Alfie begins to run. Matthew spots him, he must have spotted the man too because he starts the engine, opens the passenger door and reverses the car. Alfie jumps in, he struggles to close the door as Matthew puts his foot down on the accelerator. A three-point turn in the middle of the street and they’re facing in the right direction, facing the bright-red man,
and they feel bad as they speed through a puddle, sending water up and over him.

“Sorry, sir,” Matthew shouts. He closes the car window and turns left.

“This is a rescue mission,” Alfie says.

“Maybe,” Matthew says.

“No, it definitely is,” Alfie says, as they head for Toys R Us. He pictures Amy Pond, all alone in a cardboard box with plastic windows. “She must get so lonely,” he says.

“Yes,” Matthew says.

S
adie is on the verge of buying a tent. She doesn't need or want a tent, and she is not aware that she is standing on a verge. The idea of sleeping under polyester in the wild outdoors is, quite frankly, preposterous. Why would anyone want to do that? Hotels were invented for a reason. But sometimes a tent is not a tent: it is a justification for being where you are—for just happening (
how strange
) to be (
after all these years
) in a particular (
oh God, is that her?
) spot.

The spot: Grab&Go Camping.

As in: Grabowski.

As in: Alison.

The woman who was going to live in Manhattan, walk her small dog through Central Park, fall in love with someone who liked street art, Japanese food, James Joyce. So what happened? Bessie is what happened. Bessie Bryant. Otherwise known as Elizabeth Jennifer Bryant. Lover of the great outdoors. Professional camper. Bought Alison a pair of waterproof trousers for their anniversary. Romance isn't dead, it's alive and well, you just have to grab it—Grab&Go Camping!

Sadie peers through the window, looking for a woman in a Smiths T-shirt, suede jacket and black jeans, smoking a roll-up. There is no woman of that description here. Her stomach hurts. She has eaten too many Werther's Originals on the journey. She has skipped lunch too, which always makes her murderous or depressed. And she's nervous. Will it feel like seeing a ghost? Will her beaten-up love for Alison spring from its crookedness like an old wooden doll coming back to life?
Oh déjà vu. Scared of my feelings again. Déjà fucking vu! Might as well be at university. Have I learnt nothing?

And then

oh God,

is that her?

Sadie presses her nose against the glass.

It is, isn't it?

She is not wearing a Smiths T-shirt, suede jacket, black jeans. She is not smoking a roll-up. She is blowing up an airbed. Kneeling on the floor, blowing. Her hair is different (straight bob). Her body is different (less curvy). She is wearing combat trousers (green, practical, hi-tech) and a grey short-sleeved shirt with a tiny cartoon bear on the front (probably a logo, possibly Canadian, unless it's a badge, and let's hope it isn't, because what kind of woman wears a badge like that?). She is blowing and blowing and a young man walks over, he laughs and says something and hands Alison what looks like a foot pump, which she connects to the airbed, and now she's standing upright, pumping air with her foot, and all that's left for Sadie to do is assess Alison Grabowski's bottom, which is still the same bottom and not the same bottom at all.

They are dancing to the Wonder Stuff. I'm so dizzy, my head is spinnin'. Alison is jumping around in a ropey kind of jumper,
denim shorts, black leggings, cherry Doc Martens. Her name is not Alison, it's Allie. She is drunk and laughing and dancing to the Wonder Stuff with Sadie Peterson, who is here with Ralph Swoon, who is chivalrous and thoughtful but not Allie Grabowski. It has taken Sadie several months to realize that Ralph is not Allie, despite the obvious anatomical differences, their contrasting dreams for the future, the fact that one has a fondness for melodrama and the other for pot plants. She watches Allie dancing, thinks oh shit, I really want you, puts her hand on her stomach, starts to cry.

Sadie Peterson is pregnant.

“You'd actually marry him? Ralph Swoon?” Allie says, a week later, in the art gallery's vegetarian cafe. Her eyeliner is smudged. Her face is pale. She hasn't touched any of her houmous and pitta bread.

“What choice do I have?”

“Do you love him?”

“I think so.”

“Well you'd better marry him then, hadn't you? You can buy a nice house in the suburbs.”

“Don't be like that.”

“Like what?”

“Jealous.”

Allie tears her pitta bread and dunks it in the houmous. “I'm not
jealous
, I'm disappointed. There's a big difference.”

“Is there?”

Oh for God's sake, just spit it out. Tell each other how you feel. Turn this around. Make plans that involve talking to Ralph, finishing your degrees, moving into a terraced house with a tiny garden, just the two of you, asking the grandparents to babysit, getting by somehow, finding a way to be two mothers to two children who also have a father, three grandmothers, three grandfathers.

Sadie leans forward and wipes houmous from the side of Allie's mouth. They sit in silence, listening to Kirsty MacColl, drinking Diet Coke, waiting for something to happen. Months pass and Sadie grows bigger and Ralph proposes and Sadie says yes. They sit and drink Diet Coke and wait for something to happen. The caffeinated twins become fidgety. Someone says those lads are gonna be footballers, just you wait. When they are born, Ralph cries and Sadie screams and Allie goes to the cinema alone to see a subtitled French film about death, where she meets a woman called Bessie, who is also alone.

“Are you sure it's me you want?” Bessie says, six months into their relationship.

“Why are you saying that?”

“I don't know.”

“You must know.”

“Well I don't, all right? I don't know why I just said that. Shall we go for a long walk?”

There is a limit to how long someone can stand outside a camping shop, peering through the window, without attracting attention or becoming self-conscious. Sadie has a growling stomach and a confusing appetite. Old passions are stirring, but are they just that—
old
passions? Two figures stand beside her: Yearning on the left, Wistfulness on the right. She is the jam in a nostalgia sandwich, looking through the window and aching for what has gone. It's a satisfying ache, which is curious, because the ache is a symptom of dissatisfaction. Paradoxical longing. What has gone is still here, but only because it was never here at all. Unrequited love: the love that goes on and on because it didn't, it couldn't, it must. Its existence thrives on non-existence.

Sadie opens the door and enters the shop. A bell rings. She
strolls in, head high. Marches past the woman blowing up an airbed. Marches until she arrives at a wide selection of tents, fully erect. Hears footsteps behind her. Rushes into one of the tents, a dome all set up and ready for two happy campers to crawl into after a hard day of (what, exactly? What do campers do? Sadie has no idea) being outdoors. The sleeping bags have frogs all over them, lime-green smiley frogs, sitting on a black background. Is this a
child's
tent?

“Can I help you at all?”

Here goes nothing.
Sadie doesn't turn around. She wants to, but it doesn't happen.
Déjà vu
…

Silence. The smell of plastic and perfume and—

Sadie can feel the woman's presence behind her in the tent. She is just standing there saying nothing, which, Sadie decides, is a rather
invasive
approach for a salesperson to take:
I watch over you, I take over you
. Are they lyrics from a song? She can hear them being sung by a woman—is it Juliana Hatfield? She wonders if tents always feel this erotic (maybe
that's
where the phrase happy camper comes from) or if it's the sudden memory of walking into a bathroom and seeing Alison in the bath, surrounded by candles, reading D.H. Lawrence and listening to Juliana Hatfield.

“This one's on offer,” the woman says.

Sadie turns around. She exhales. The exhalation lasts for ever. She has been holding her breath.

Raised eyebrows and an open mouth. Shock reddens the woman's cheeks. She blinks, just once. Then she says one word. This word was on her lips before it fell from her lips. She says
Sadie
. It is a question.

“Sadie?”

“Hello, Alison.”

She says it again, as if the first answer wasn't good enough,
as if this woman called Sadie can't hear her and isn't really this close, because how
can
she be this close? “Sadie?”

“Yes.” (It's me, I'm here.)

“Bloody hell.”

“I know.” (
What
do I know?)

“I can't believe it.”

Sadie sighs. She has never been so full of air.

Alison is shaking her head. “Are you?—”

“Am I?—”

“Looking for a tent?”

Is she really going to talk about tents?

“Yes.”

Yes?

“You don't live around here, do you?” Alison looks slightly afraid as she says this.

“Passing through.”

Oh come on!

In Sadie's mind, high-speed deliberation. Two opposing sentences:
Actually, I came here to see you
versus
I need a two-man tent for my sons
. The truth versus a lie. Risk versus safety. Free versus £250. Instead of a tent, she decides to buy some time.

“Are you by any chance free for a drink after work?”

“Today?”

“Yes.”

“Actually, I have plans.”

Time is not for sale. It has sold out. Sadie remembers when it was free and all theirs. She wants to cry, but as usual this urge doesn't produce any tears. ‘Songbird' by Eva Cassidy is playing in the shop, which isn't helping, because it always makes her emotional and it's strange, she doesn't even like the song, it's—

“But I could postpone,” Alison says.

“Could you?” Sadie says.

T
hey drink coffee while he mows the lawn.

“Why is he doing that?” Ralph says.

“He likes to be helpful,” Miriam says.

“Isn’t it a bit early? It’s not even eight o’clock.”

“A bit early for what?”

They watch through the kitchen window, then Miriam takes three small boxes of cereal from a cupboard and lines them up on the counter: Coco Pops, Cheerios, Crunchy Nut Cornflakes. It’s not Ralph’s usual breakfast—muesli with berries, nuts and pumpkin seeds.

“Help yourself,” Miriam says, before leaving the room with a bowl of Coco Pops.

Cheerios it is, Ralph thinks. He tips them out, adds milk. Are these actually
edible?

He wanders outside. “How’s it going?” he shouts.

Boo stops mowing the lawn. He is wearing a short-sleeved denim shirt and faded jeans. To Ralph, this man looks sturdy and handsome and like a member of the Village People. “It’s going well,” he says. “I’ve nearly finished.”

“You help Miriam out a lot, do you?”

“She has only just let me in.”

“Let you in?”

“To her premises.”

“Would you like to come in for a coffee?”

Boo tips his head and looks at Ralph over the top of his sunglasses. Who on earth does this man from the woods think he is? Talking like it’s his house and his coffee and—

“I would, thank you.”

In the kitchen, Boo watches Ralph move easily from cupboard to drawer to cupboard, knowing where things live. This exhibition of small knowledge makes him feel excluded. “Where is Miriam?” he says.

“I think she went upstairs.” A pause, then: “She tells me you’re a herbalist.”

“That’s right.”

“I’m a psychotherapist. Well, that’s open to debate right now. I’m not sure what I am. Having a kind of crisis, I think. If that doesn’t sound too dramatic.”

I only came in to see Miriam, Boo thinks. “I see.”

“Anyway, I’m open to anything that will help, herbal or otherwise.”

“What kind of crisis?”

“Well, this might sound a bit fanciful.”

Boo stands completely still.

“I feel unknowable.”

“Unknowable.”

“Yes.”

“To yourself or other people?”

“Both. I feel confused all the time, and like nothing matters. That sounds awful. My sons matter. I have two sons. But everything else feels like liquid.”

Liquid?

Boo takes a deep breath. He was happy mowing the lawn—unquestionably happy. Now he is being bombarded and Miriam is nowhere to be seen. “Liquid?” he says.

“Things that were solid are now liquid. Do you have a remedy for that?” Ralph laughs. He knows that what he is saying is preposterous. Quick fixes don’t exist, do they? He notices the doors on the kitchen cupboards, hanging crooked or about to fall off. Heinz tomato soup, sugary children’s cereal, a man from the Village People—is any of this really helping? Is it serving any kind of purpose?

“Well, I’m trialling a remedy for anxiety right now,” Boo says, “called Anata.”

“I’m not sure it’s anxiety.”

“You don’t feel anxious?”

“Not particularly.”

“You look anxious.”

“Great.”

“Great?”

Ralph and Boo are two different types of men. Lock them in a room together and it would take months for them to bond. One values politeness, keeping busy, looking after what is his; the other is searching for a sign that something, anything, belongs to him.

Footsteps upstairs. Music from a radio (is that Chris Isaak?). The sound of a hairdryer.

“May I ask you a question?” Boo says. “And I’d like you to answer it quickly, without thinking.”

“All right.”

“Imagine you are completely free. You can do whatever you like. What are you going to do?”

“Oh that’s a good one,” Ralph says.

“Don’t think,” Boo says.

The hairdryer stops. Footsteps on the landing.

“Say it,” Boo says.

“I don’t know,” Ralph says, feeling under pressure.

“Nothing at all comes to mind?”

“Not really.”

“Your freedom is wasted on you,” Boo says, his voice hushed by kindness.

Ralph is used to dealing with Sadie, two teenagers and numerous challenging clients. And yet now, in this scrappy little kitchen, he is flummoxed. He has gone too fast and too deep with Boo and he feels exposed. He remembers standing in a youth-hostel kitchen during a school trip—the other boys looked so stupid and untidy. He wanted to go home and he wanted to stay.

“I always let things drift,” he says. “And I’m drifting now by being here.”

“With Miriam?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t want to be with her?”

“Oh, you think—” Ralph shakes his head. “You think we’re together.”

“You’re not?”

“No, not at all.”

Such glorious words! Boo swigs his coffee and eyes the box of Crunchy Nut Cornflakes beside the kettle. He hears Miriam walking downstairs, her footsteps heavy and slow. He would like to fix her kitchen, clean out her pond, put up shelves in her garage, cook her a roast dinner with all the trimmings. He looks at Ralph, who is clutching a mug that says NO. 1 MUM.

“I must finish the lawn immediately,” Boo says.

“Fair enough,” Ralph says. He wonders where this man gets his energy from, suspects that it’s probably herbal, and without his concoctions he’d be tired, lethargic, basically normal.

Across town, a boy has just woken up. “Good morning, Amy Pond,” the boy says. “How are you today? Did you sleep well? I did. Are you hungry yet? Would you like some toast?”

From the other single bed, while pretending to be asleep, Matthew listens to his little brother talking to an action figure. He knows that in a few minutes’ time Alfie will tumble out of bed in his
Doctor Who
pyjamas and carry Amy Pond downstairs to the breakfast table, where he will bend her legs (slowly, lovingly) and sit her down against a bottle of brown sauce (“Now
that’s
what I call good posture,” his mother will say). Amy Pond is new but she is already part of the family. Her comments (Amy is verbose) about an unforeseen assortment of matters are taken seriously, as are her requests (“I’d like to go swimming in the bath sometime,” Amy says).

Today is Saturday. The day when Alfie’s father sets up his stall at the market. Amy has offered to help, because that’s the kind of woman she is. Matthew is coming too, which is unusual. He normally goes for a bike ride on Saturdays, or to the cinema in the afternoon with a girl. He never brings any of his girlfriends home, only sketches of their faces, which he shows his family after the evening meal (on a Saturday, fish and chips). They lean in close to look and there are
ooohs
and
ahhhs
and comments like
interesting expression
and
such
sadness in her eyes.

“You two had better hurry up if you want to help your dad,” their mother says.

“You
three
,” Alfie says.

Matthew looks at his mother. “Are you coming too?”

“No, I need to go food shopping. Can you bring back some fish?”

By nine-thirty the market is chock-a-block with people carrying tote bags. The text on the bags ranges from NOBODY LOVES ME LIKE MY DOG to STAND UP TO CANCER, I LOVE THIS PLANET and PUGS NOT DRUGS. Alfie likes to read the wording on the bags, because when you are seven the messages seem deeply mysterious, extremely significant.

“I’ve just seen a woman with cancer,” he says, running up to his father. Amy Pond’s head is sticking out of his shirt pocket, bobbing up and down as he weaves through the crowd. “Does that mean she’s dying?”

“What makes you think she has cancer?” Eric says.

“It says so on her bag.”

“Where’s your brother?”

“Parking the car.”

The tote bags are bulging with organic meat, locally grown vegetables, jam with high fruit content, cheeses made by small producers using milk from their own herds. Some bags contain other items, like candles, second-hand books and small wooden objects. The objects are made by Eric, a wood sculptor who uses the stall to advertise his bigger creations. Today he is selling tiny swaying trees, a naked couple (face to face, their arms wrapped around each other), dragons, hares, a tiny violin leaning against a tree, a woman beating a drum. (Yes, people actually buy these things.)

Matthew turns up with two coffees and a lemonade. He picks up each of the carved wooden trees, one after the other, inspecting their bases. His father drinks his coffee and chats to his customers, finding the small talk easy. He notices the twitchiness of a woman’s hands as she asks whether he might consider carving her a carriage clock, a wooden replica that she
could give to her husband when he retires. She doesn’t think his firm will give him a carriage clock. He’s spent his whole working life expecting one, but he doesn’t like the ticking of time, you see. He’d love one that is silent, wooden,
symbolic
—one that will fill an unpredictable gap. It’s a tall order for a piece of wood.

“Are you really going to make a carriage clock?” Matthew says, when the woman has gone.

“How could I say no?”

“Ever made one before?”

“First time for everything.”

Matthew looks around to see if anyone is about to approach the stall. He glances at Alfie, sitting on a stool, reading his comic. Now is a good time. “Dad?”

“Mmnn.”

“Someone might turn up today. I mean, there’s a slim chance—”

Eric turns to face his son. Is he finally about to meet one of his girlfriends? A living breathing woman instead of a line drawing? “Great,” he says, rubbing his hands together.

“Well, hear me out.”

Alfie starts humming the music from
Chariots of Fire.
A man walks over and asks for directions to the train station. He buys a wooden dragon. Says he’d rather have bought a horse. Says that Eric should make a giant Harry Potter. Leaves.

“You were saying?”

Matthew runs his fingers through his hair, pushing it in all directions. He looks his father in the eye and says, “I know about Miriam.”