Read Whispers Through a Megaphone Online
Authors: Rachel Elliott
Whispers Through a Megaphone (18 page)
M
iriam Delaney is saying no, I don’t believe you, my parents are both dead, where’s your proof, what are you after? As she whispers, her heart races and her palms sweat. Hope surges through her, she tries to stop it surging but this hope has a mind of its own.
Ralph Swoon is listening to Miriam on the phone, wondering what’s going on, wondering who is making her whisper slightly louder than usual. He strokes Treacle’s head and glances at the cuckoo clock.
Sadie Swoon is eating a gluten-free pizza with blue cheese, roasted onions and potatoes, spinach, tomato and mozzarella. She is looking at Alison’s mouth, thinking what now, what the hell happens now?
Alison Grabowski is eating a smoked-ham and pineapple pizza with extra chillies. She asks if Sadie has seen a film called
Take This Waltz
, and Sadie says no, she hasn’t seen a
film in ages, in fact she can’t even remember the last time she went to the cinema with Ralph or anyone else, and it’s a long answer, it goes on and on, and Alison just watches her, she doesn’t look away.
Arthur Swoon is watching
Breaking Bad
on Netflix. He hasn’t left the sofa for five hours. Last night, he dreamt he was swimming through a river and the water was cold, unbearably cold, but his body was warm, the swimming was easy and his mother was standing at the side, shouting words of encouragement, egging him on as if it was some kind of race but there was no one else in the water.
Stanley Swoon is kissing Joe Schwartz in the kitchen. Under the grill, bacon is curling. On the hob, a frying pan is warming up. Three plates, three knives and three forks have been placed on the work surface. The absence of his parents over the past few days—his father gone completely, his mother coming and going—has awakened a sense of personal authority. This house feels like
his
house. He walked Harvey this morning, fed him this evening, opened a tiny tube and poured it over his neck to protect him from bloodthirsty fleas. He went to the supermarket and brought home the bacon that is curling under the grill. Right now, his iPod is sending music into three different rooms—a new playlist called Our Summer. He is filling this house in a way his parents never could and it’s exciting, it’s uncomfortable, it makes him feel alive.
Kristin Hart is at home with Carol, watching
The Good Wife
. She is missing her friend Sadie, who has blanked her since that night in the cupboard on the landing—since the kiss that should never have happened, the kiss she can’t think of
without feeling furious, the kiss that flutters through her days and nights like a tiny fantastical bird.
Boo Hodgkinson is attempting to invent a new herbal remedy. His kitchen is a laboratory and he is a scientist and Vivaldi’s
Four Seasons
is playing on his Bose music system. Fuelled by steak and chips and a bottle of ale, he flicks through his books and hums to the music and admires his own reflection in the window: his thick moustache, his rugby player’s physique, his rampant hairy chest.
Eric Delaney is listening to his daughter. She is accusing him of wanting to steal her inheritance. Her whispers race around him like a breeze and the breeze smells of his dead ex-wife—Chanel No. 5.
Alfie Delaney is asleep in bed. He is wearing
Doctor Who
pyjamas. Amy Pond is lying on the pillow beside Alfie’s head. He is dreaming about the neighbour’s Jack Russell, white and brown and black, running in circles with Amy in its mouth.
Matthew Delaney is listening to his father, who has just finished speaking to Miriam. She whispered at me, Eric says. Oh sweetheart, his wife says, sitting beside him, stroking his hair. It is imperative that Matthew meets Miriam, he can feel it, deep in his bones—skeletal knowledge. He wants to draw her face. He wants to draw his father’s face too, right now in this moment, the way sorrow has made it crumple and give way. Why anyone would want to draw a smile is a mystery to Matthew—it’s sorrow that has the allure, the magnetism.
“I
don’t believe it,” Ralph says, staring at Miriam. “Are you all right? Shall I make some tea?”
He moves towards her and she shudders.
A pot of Yorkshire Tea. A plate of Rich Tea biscuits. A bar of Kendal Mint Cake—why not? Miriam is clearly about to embark on an expedition of sorts—anyone can see the huge familial mountain, rising higher by the second, shouting
climb me climb me you know you want to climb me
.
Side by side on the sofa. He puts his arm around her shoulder. Her body is stiff, stubborn.
“He says my mother told him to leave and never make contact,” she says, her face even paler than usual.
“But why would he agree to that?”
Miriam gives him a sharp look and rolls up her sleeves.
“If Sadie told
me
I could never try and see the boys, I wouldn’t agree to it,” he says.
“But Sadie isn’t my mother.”
“No she isn’t.”
“My mother told him she would hurt me if he turned up.”
“And he believed her?”
“You never met my mother.”
“He could have gone to the police.”
“She got there first. Told them he was aggressive and she’d forced him to stay away.”
Ralph sips his tea. Whose life is this? Sitting on a sofa eating Rich Tea biscuits with a woman whose father played dead? It’s not
his
life. It’s
never
his life.
“This is a lot to take in,” Miriam says. She looks at him expectantly.
“It is,” he says.
“I probably just need to sit quietly,” she says.
“Yes.”
“By
myself
.”
“Oh—”
“Do you mind?”
“Of course not.”
His presence is neither comforting nor helpful. It’s humiliating.
“To be honest, you’ve been sitting in this house for days,” she says.
“Mmnn.”
“You’re going to turn into me if you’re not careful.”
“I’ll go for a walk,” he says.
“You could go to the pub for last orders.”
That would be a first—wandering to a local pub for last orders. Quaint.
“Boo often does that,” she says. “Actually, he’d probably like to join you.”
“And you wouldn’t mind?” he says. He never asks Sadie if she would mind him going out. He just comes and goes and she just comes and goes and—
“Definitely not.”
Boo doesn’t answer the door. He can’t hear it above the sound of Vivaldi’s
Four Seasons
. Ralph just stands there, feeling partly like Miriam has kicked him out and partly like he has abandoned her.
He walks through the streets until he reaches the Crown. Inside, people stare at him. At the bar, he orders a pint and a bag of crisps. In his peripheral vision he can see a woman getting up from her seat and walking over to where he is standing. She says her name is Sandy. She says would you like some company? She is wearing an orange boob tube and tight stonewashed jeans. She asks what he does for a living and he says he’s a psychotherapist. She says what’s a psychotherapist? He says it’s someone who’s paid to listen and help people make sense of their interior worlds. She says what’s an interior world, are you talking about hanging pictures and stuff? And he says no, I mean the interior of a
person
. She laughs and calls him a psycho. Her teeth are a shocking white. She leans in and tells him that people have paid a lot of money to enjoy the benefits of
her
interior world, and is he interested, does he know what she means? He says thank you for your kind offer, but no thank you. She says it’s not a kind offer, you prick, I’m not doing this out of the kindness of my heart. He says I’m terribly sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you, I’m just here for a quiet pint. Need a break from your frigid wife? she says. I bloody knew it. It’s written all over you. Bet you can’t even remember what to do with it. Bloody useless, you are. Give us a crisp it’s the least you can do.
Fucking hell, Ralph thinks, as he leaves the pub. He walks around the corner until the Crown is out of sight, and hesitates
before heading back to Miriam’s. Does she want him there? Does he want to be there? And if not there, then—
He looks at his phone. No messages or missed calls today. He dials a number.
“Well I never,” a voice says.
“Hello.”
“Finally bothered to make contact, have you?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Are you really.”
“I’m sorry, Sadie.”
“Do you think it’s acceptable to just walk out on your family?”
“Not really.”
“I’ve reported you missing to the police.”
“Oh God, you haven’t.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Why not? Anything could have happened to me.”
“Something told me you were fine. Are you fine?”
“I suppose so. How are the boys?”
“They’re good. Look, can we talk another time?”
“It’s late, I know.”
“It’s not that. Do you remember Alison Grabowski?”
“From university?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I’m out with her right now.”
“Where are you?”
“In a car park.”
“What?”
“Look, I have to go, Ralph. We’re about to get a taxi.”
“Where to?”
“Alison’s.”
“Are the boys with you?”
“They’re hardly boys any more, are they? They’re sixteen.”
“So they’re home alone.”
She sighs. “They’re
sixteen
.”
“Did Alison contact you?”
“Why?”
“Did she?”
“No, I Googled her.”
“You Googled her.”
“That’s what I said. Look, I’ll call you tomorrow, okay? Alison’s waiting. I’m glad you’re fine. We’ll talk soon.”
Beside a street light, on a row of white terraced houses, Ralph stares at his phone and says
Jesus Christ
. Sadie is out with Alison. She isn’t at home, worrying about him and their marriage. Did he expect her to be? Probably. Or she might have been out with Kristin or Beverley. But
Alison fucking Grabowski
. He hoped she had become fat and boring. How mature, Ralph. Oh fuck maturity. Fuck it all. Even Miriam’s on the move, she’s on her way up a mountain, climbing suspiciously and hopefully towards a man who claims to be her father. But what about
him?
He is just standing here by a street light, in a part of town that can only be described as insalubrious, and earlier tonight he was rejected by Miriam, then the man from the Village People whose light was on when he knocked on the door, and now his wife sounds drunk and silly and he could hear the smile in her voice. Google did that. It made the smile happen. Not Alison herself. Maybe Google could do something for him too? He would need to use Miriam’s computer. Does she have a computer? She must have, everyone has one.
Oh you idiot, Ralph. You have Google in your hand, don’t you? He rolls his eyes at his own technological naivety. Smart phone, dim user. He has never used his phone
properly
before—he’s had no need to visit websites or send emails on the go. But
now his life is permanently on the go. So
where
is he going? This question is unexpectedly vast, a construction of letters the width of Amsterdam, with its own canals, bikes and tulips, its own galleries and red-light district, and a bar in which a woman called Julie Parsley is singing about how the past never ends.
If Sadie can do it, why not him?
Ralph has a competitive streak and tonight it gives him a purpose and direction, even if that purpose is beating his wife in a game of Win Back an Old Flame.
(Childish, Ralph.)
(And you don’t even know how to access Google on that phone.)
Game on, Sadie, he thinks, as he jogs all the way back to Miriam’s.
“Y
ou can’t drive,” Alison says. “You’ve had too much wine.”
“Neither can you,” Sadie says.
They stand in the multistorey car park, fiddling with keys. A jingle, a chime, the scanty sound of indecision. Alison rubs her thumb against a key ring—a plastic case containing a photograph of a beagle.
“Is that your dog?” Sadie says, looking down at the key ring.
“This?”
“Yeah.”
“No, it just came with the key ring.”
“You’re supposed to put your own photo in it.”
“Who says?”
A teenager steps out of the darkness. White trainers, blue jeans, a red T-shirt, pink hair.
“Nice hair,” Alison says.
“I need money for the night shelter,” the boy says.
Sadie asks if he’s homeless.
“Why else would I be begging for money?”
A woman appears, carrying a bag that says Fusion Noodles.
“Kevin, for God’s sake,” she says. “We’ve been over this haven’t we? Just get in the car.” The woman and the boy get into a black BMW. Doors slam, an engine starts. The passenger window is wound down and raised voices can be heard as the car pulls away.
“So I was thinking,” Alison says. “You can stay at mine if you like. We can collect the cars tomorrow.”
There is a lump in Sadie’s throat. Alison is in control—that’s how it feels. It brings a lump to her throat and she looks away, embarrassed. She feels her phone vibrate in her handbag and checks to see who it is.
“Do you mind if I take this?” she says. “It’s important.”
“Of course not, you go ahead. I’ll call us a taxi.”
“Well I never,” Sadie says. “Finally bothered to make contact, have you?” Then “Are you really” and “Do you think it’s acceptable to just walk out?”
Alison phones for a taxi, while trying to listen to what Sadie is saying.
“So you Googled me did you?” she says, as they walk out of the car park.
“How else was I supposed to find you?”
“Creepy,” Alison says.
“Like you actually mind,” Sadie says.
By the time the taxi arrives they are holding hands.
A cardboard monkey hangs from the rear-view mirror—on its chest, the words
I smell of banana, baby
. But the car doesn’t smell of bananas, it smells of aftershave and beer.
The driver is from Cornwall. He tells them this while they sit in the back and look out of the window. St Ives, he says, well it’s the great love of his life, that’s what it is, there’s no other way to put it, and if anyone says you can’t love a place like you love a person they’re talking absolute bollocks.
“You ladies love any place?” he says.
“Not really,” Sadie says.
“If you love St Ives, why are you here instead of there?” Alison says, which makes the driver fall silent. He shakes his head, stares at her in the rear-view mirror, and the monkey spins as he slams his foot down hard on the accelerator.
“You fucking women, you’re so
smug
,” he says.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Think you can say what you like, do what you like.”
What?
Alison takes Sadie’s hand.
Too fast. Wrong turning.
This is
not
the way to Alison’s house.
They speak at the same time.
Sadie says look I think you’re.
Alison says pull over right now I.
The driver says shut the fuck up just shut the.
Straight over a roundabout.
Straight through traffic lights.
Drove me out of St Ives didn’t they, he says. Her new bloke and his mates. I mean
come on
, for what, the odd drunken shag with my
own
wife? Stop the car, Alison says. Please pull over, we want to get out. And the man says lady I’m
talking
. He says you have no manners, anyone ever tell you that? Then he’s back on St Ives, saying he loves its roads its curves the sound it makes at night. Wrote a poem about it once, had it published, pretty good eh ladies?
He turns up the radio. ‘Take My Breath Away’. As in
Top Gun
.
For a second, Sadie just remembers the film. She remembers Tom Cruise and Kelly McGillis. Then she is back in the car with Alison Grabowski and a man saying let’s go somewhere quiet, what do you think, I know the perfect spot, I know the perfect place.
