Whispers Through a Megaphone (22 page)

“When you walked out, what did she do?” Julie says.

“What do you mean?”

“Did she look for you?”

“Of course not. She’s too level-headed for that.”

“But you didn’t say where you were going. Wasn’t she concerned?”

“I feel a bit interrogated,” he says.

Way to go, Ralph—you’ve identified a feeling. Only “interrogated” isn’t actually a feeling is it?

“Interrogated?”

“I came to see
you
, not talk about Sadie.”

Every time she mentions Sadie he feels something in his stomach. It feels like loss, or longing, which is clearly a misinterpretation, because he can’t be longing for Sadie, he just
can’t
.

They were standing outside the cinema, about to buy tickets and popcorn.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” said Sadie.

Ralph wondered if she was about to finish with him. He stood completely still. Perhaps doing nothing would resolve the situation? She seemed to be having the same idea, because she was also standing still and they were two statues in leather jackets with wide collars, his and hers, hers and his, bought together from the indoor market, the one all the students shopped at, the one that sold brand-new clothes which looked really old.

“Can we just go for a drink?” she said.

“Are you going to dump me?”

“Of course not. Why would you think that?”

Why
would
he think that? Things had been good, incredibly good. And yet there was something about her that he couldn’t grasp. A remoteness, maybe. A reserve.

In the pub, he asked if she’d like her usual whisky and Coke and she said no, I think I’ll have an apple juice.

“Since when do you drink apple juice?” he said, placing their glasses on the table and sitting beside her.

“Don’t box me in,” she said.

“What?”

She rolled her eyes.

He made a mental note: don’t comment on what she eats or drinks. In fact, don’t comment on
anything
.

“So you wanted to tell me something?” he said.

She brought the glass to her lips and began to drink. The drinking went on and on until the apple juice was gone. She burped. She smiled. “I’m pregnant,” she said.

A young man with an open mouth.

A young woman with a fake smile.

“Say something,” she said.

“Well blow me,” he said.

“I
really
wish you wouldn’t use that phrase.”

“It’s perfectly harmless.”

“Oh come on.”

“It is. My dad says it all the time. It’s just a shortened version of blow me down. You know, as in blow me down with a feather duster.”

“I’ve never heard
anyone
say that.”

“You must have.”

“I haven’t. Anyway, I think your version is misogynistic.”

“How on earth is it misogynistic?”

The argument went on for half an hour. It was a high-speed cart, hurtling around the edges of the pregnancy, avoiding it completely. They jumped in, held on tight, threw words at each other. The cart shook them about, kept them busy, then tossed them back into the room with red faces and churning stomachs.

“So what do you want to do?” he said.

“I could murder a veggie burger,” she said.

“I meant about the baby.”

“Oh.”

“Whatever you decide, I’ll support you.”

That’s what you’re supposed to say, isn’t it?

“I want to keep it.”

“Do you?”

She nodded. But what about him? Did she want to keep
him
?

They walked to the American diner and ordered two burgers, one fries, one special coleslaw. They ate in silence for a while, watching other customers, looking at the Edward Hopper prints on the walls.

“Sadie,” Ralph said. “Sadie, I—”

“What’s so special about this coleslaw?” she said. “Why did they call it
special
?”

That evening, he phoned his mother. He told a story about a man with an open mouth, a woman with a fake smile.

“Why did she have a fake smile?” his mother said.

“I think she was nervous,” he said. “We’re students, for God’s sake. The timing is terrible.”

“She needn’t be nervous around you. You’re a good boy.”

He flinched. “Don’t call me a boy.”

“You’re a good man. You’ll do what’s right, I know you will. Things happen when they happen. What’s she like, this Sadie?”

“She keeps her cards close to her chest.”

Brenda thought for a moment. She had expected him to say
pretty
or
lovely
. “Well as long as you’re playing the same game,” she said.

He had no idea what that meant. “We are,” he said.

“Well that’s marvellous.”

“Is it?”

“Absolutely. We weren’t sure you had it in you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you’re a bit
cerebral
, aren’t you? I can’t wait to tell your father. He’s at the car boot sale. Maybe I should ring him, he could pick something up for the baby, what do you think?”

Eight months later:
twins
.

A chubby boy, a scrawny boy.

Double the screaming. Double the clothes and food.

Sadie was cheerful with other people and miserable at home. “I
love
these boys,” she said to her friends. With Ralph she cried, ate HobNobs, used words like
delirious
and
overrated
.

“I don’t think you’re delirious,” he said.

“I am. I’m so tired I’m fucking delirious. It’s all right for you. You get to have conversations about something other than babies. I mean really, why do people find it so
absorbing
?”

Ralph became her audience. It was a well-worn track. He had been his parents’ audience too.

I listen. I respond. I listen. I respond.

(The hefty shadows of other people.)

I have no idea what I like and don’t like.

Missing: the true feelings of Ralph Swoon. Reward will be given to anyone who can uncover them.

Once more with feeling, Ralph. You can do it. You can feel joy like your parents’ joy. All you need to do is try harder.

His parents visited and expressed their concern.

“You need fattening up,” said Brenda, at the twins’ fourth birthday party. “Eat some of this cake, go on.”

“You do look a bit pale, if you don’t mind me saying,” said Frank.

“I’m fine. Sadie’s the one who’s tired.”

“Do you buy her flowers?” said Brenda.

“Sorry?”

“Flowers.”

For fuck’s sake!

Ralph took a deep, slow breath.

“I’m working every hour there is,” he said.

“So stop going out.”

“What?”

“When we had you, we didn’t go out all the time. Restaurants cost money. Babysitters cost money. Did you really need to go to the theatre last week? We played Scrabble. We counted our blessings.”

Ralph laughed.

His mother looked hurt.

Sadie was not a woman who counted her blessings. She knew that in order to have a good life you had to keep moving,
searching for new experiences, putting in the effort. She didn’t stand around, marvelling at what was simply there in moments of foolish optimism. He admired her appetite. Day after day, she was empty.

How exhausting, Ralph.

(How sad.)

“Do you two even
own
any board games?” said Frank.

On a blanket, on a beach, Ralph gazes at the sea. He takes a handful of sand, lets it run through his fingers.

Julie Parsley offers him a Kit Kat Chunky.

“No thanks,” he says. “Will you sing something?”

“Here?”

“Yes.”

“Now?”

“Why not? Sing something from the old days. Doris Day?”

She grins, eyes him with mock suspicion, ruffles his hair. “Oh all right.”

But she doesn’t sing Doris Day. She plumps for Joni Mitchell, ‘A Case of You’. Is this for
him
? What is she trying to say?

Here we go again. The regeneration, the renewal. Her voice is all over him. How different she looks when she sings, like she hasn’t changed at all. This is
it
—a feeling he can easily describe. It feels like aliveness. It feels like vigour. A sharpness of mind. A
firm intention
.

His intention, in this moment, is to kiss her.

They could spend years playing the guitar, singing, selling Moomins.

There are worse ways to kill time.

And just
imagine
what might happen if this aliveness stuck around, if it actually gathered momentum. His clients could make use of him—they could internalize a vigorous presence.
Aliveness is contagious. It passes from one person to another as easily as—

His lips are on her lips.

It silences her.

He would rather she kept on singing while they were kissing, but that would be creepy. A passion killer, in fact.

If he had a recording of her singing, he could have his cake and eat it.

Yes!

She could perform all the songs she sang when they were teenagers and he could record her.

Now
that’s
a good idea.

This kiss is long.

It makes his thoughts race.

It starts to feel exhausting, all this vigour and regeneration, all this thinking while kissing and kissing while thinking.

Kissing usually makes the thinking stop.

What does it mean?

It means he’s just not that into it.

Isn’t that the name of a film?

He’s Just Not That into You,
that was it. Romantic comedy, chick flick, Sadie went to see it with Kristin.

These lips are not Sadie’s lips.

This kiss is not the kiss he is used to.

But Julie seems into it.

At least that’s something.

His lips land on hers while she is singing and she kisses him back.

Oh God, she thinks. One kiss, out of politeness, just for old time’s sake, but I’d rather be reading a book. I’d like to bake some muffins for Dad, tidy out my desk, watch another episode of
Homeland
. I should never have told him he was handsome. I’ll
just say Ralph, that was nice, but I’m not looking for anything right now. To be honest, I just want to be alone.

Julie’s tongue is in Ralph’s mouth as he remembers Sadie Peterson, pregnant with twins, saying yes I’ll marry you, go on then, let’s do it.

As they shared the news with friends and family, he wanted to ask her about that remoteness, that reserve, but he was too frightened of the answer. His fear should have given him a clue—it meant that he already
knew
the answer. He wasn’t her favourite. It was known and unknowable. No wonder things were right and not right. No wonder he felt confused. There was a gap in the marriage and they had fallen right through it. (
Mind the gap
—that’s what his mother should have said.)

Ralph pulls away from Julie, who looks drunk.

He makes a surprising announcement: “I’m so sorry, but all I could think of then was my wife.”

“Well that’s honest,” she says.

“Don’t get me wrong, it was lovely but—”

“But what?”

“I want my wife.”

“Is that a firm intention?”

“I think so.”

“You think?”

“I know.”

“Guess what,” she says.

“What.”

“I was thinking about
Homeland
.”

“You were not.”

“I was.”

“That’s really insulting.”

“Sorry.”

M
iriam is thinking about the woo and the hoo. Well, largely the hoo. It was a slip of the tongue, a free-wheeling vocal experiment. The woo was run-of-the-mill, your everyday whisper, maybe a little more excited than usual but essentially just a whisper. And the hoo?
That
was something else. Not a hoo-ha, you understand—let’s get this straight right now, because a hoo-ha would have been exactly what Miriam is used to. Her life has been one extended hoo-ha.

What’s a hoo in the grand scheme of things? A drop in the ocean. And who dropped in the ocean? Her mother did. Frances Delaney. One thing leads to another. It just does. That’s the chaos and the simplicity of life, the way all things are connected, the way every place takes you somewhere else, like it or not.

Ralph is downstairs, talking to the cat. Miriam can hear him talking. He wants his life back, that’s what he’s saying. Everything was fine only he just couldn’t see it—the flaw was
inside
him, not outside. It had been inside him all the time.

If he were to delve into the details, the nitty-gritty of all this, he would discover that what he’s thinking is untrue. If you can’t
see
that something is fine, then it isn’t fine at all.

But now is not the time for technicalities. Miriam is trying to look up from the nitty-gritty to the bigger picture. In fact, she’s going to be creating one today—a big picture of her own. Or, to be precise (she can’t help it—precision is her thing), a massive piece of art made of buttons. Yes, buttons. Her entire collection. It’s coming out. Thousands of them. Buttons and buttons. From her grandmother. From Scarborough, Skegness, Torquay. From cardigans and coats. From here, there and everywhere. All shapes, sizes and colours. She’s going to glue them to a background, the nature of which is currently undecided (artwork takes time—there has to be a
gestation
period), but what
is
decided is what these buttons will be doing. They will be spelling out words. Speaking. Okay, so it’s not a neon sign. It’s not Tracey Emin. But it’s honest, confessional
noise
.

This afternoon, Miriam is going to meet her brother at a gallery. They’ve signed up for an art class. It’s spontaneous—the kind of thing Miriam has heard people refer to as
last-minute
. Matthew loves Tracey Emin. Can you believe that? Miriam can. She believes in hardly anything but she believes in this.

Next week, he’s taking her to the cinema to watch a film while no one else is there. It’s a perk of the job, he says—free showings and popcorn. The week after that, they’re going to London on a train to hear a lecture about George Orwell and the state of the nation. Miriam has never been to London before. She has never been anywhere. Matthew didn’t find this strange when she told him. He asked if she’d like to travel in first class, with peace, quiet and free cups of tea, and when she asked why he gave her three words,
you
and
deserve
and
it
,
which sounded like a slogan from an advert on TV and made no sense to Miriam at all.

But before all this, she will meet her father.

He will be outside the gallery at four o’clock.

Waiting for his daughter and her buttons.

Buttons that make noise.

Downstairs, in the kitchen, Ralph drinks black coffee and tries to think of an appropriate grand gesture. Arriving home with flowers just isn’t going to cut it. So what is?

He spots Boo, up a ladder in his garden, and remembers the text he sent him, the one about
pursuing
Miriam. He unlocks the back door and wanders outside.

“I’m really sorry,” he says, standing by the fence that separates Miriam’s garden from Boo’s. “I completely forgot to reply to your message.”

Boo moves three steps down the ladder. “Not a problem,” he says.

“What are you doing up there?”

“I’m cleaning the guttering.”

“Didn’t you do that a couple of days ago?”

“Of course,” Boo says, proudly. “So what do you think?”

“I think it probably doesn’t need cleaning that often. I’ve never done mine.”

“I was referring to the other matter.”

“Oh.”

“I’m very keen.”

“Right. Shall I quiz her about it?”

“Quiz?”

“Test the water. See how the land lies.”

“You speak in the vaguest of languages.”

“I’ll report back later.”

“Please try to be subtle.”

“I will.”

“Your assistance is much appreciated. I’d better get back to the guttering.”

“Do you ever stop doing things?”

“Things?”

“I’m sure you could let some of these jobs slide, if you wanted to.”

“Absolutely not,” Boo says, with such force, such precision.

Ralph looks up, inexplicably awestruck.

Back in the kitchen, with Treacle in his arms, Ralph quizzes Miriam.

“You know Boo?”

“Mr Boo?”

“Your neighbour, Boo Hodgkinson.”

“How funny. I’ve never thought of him as Boo Hodgkinson.”

“Anyway, do you like him?”

She thinks for a moment. “He’s polite and generous.”

Ralph looks at the clock. What is he doing? He needs to see Sadie, and instead he’s playing matchmaker for Miriam and her hyperactive neighbour. This is
not
the time for subtlety.

“He has strong feelings for you.”

Her big brown eyes widen. She reaches out to the work surface to steady herself.

“Feelings?”

“He fancies you.”

Fancies
?

Miriam laughs. She laughs at how silly this is.
He fancies you
is the kind of statement that gets bounced from normal person to normal person in a giant game of Hooking Up. It doesn’t get passed to Miriam Delaney—can’t Ralph see that?
The bouncing stops here. She can’t catch it, this statement, because she doesn’t play for the normal team. The teams were picked in childhood and she wasn’t chosen. Get it, Ralph?
That’s
why she’s laughing.

Her stomach flips.

She glances at a loaf of white bread and wonders if she should eat it immediately to stop the flipping.

“He’s a nice guy,” Ralph says.

“Yes,” Miriam says. She is realizing what happens when one human is informed that another human fancies them. A reaction, regardless of whether the desire is reciprocated. Such a
fascinating
reaction.

“I need a marmalade sandwich,” she says.

“Are you sure that’s what you need?” he says.

Upstairs, while Ralph is packing his rucksack, Miriam phones Fenella.

“Hello, honey. How are you? Still living with that therapist?”

“He’s about to go home.”

“You okay?”

“Fenella, I need to ask you an urgent question.”

“Go on.”

“What do you think of Boo Hodgkinson?”

“Boo who?”

“Don’t be silly.”

“I wasn’t.”

“My next-door neighbour.”

“Oh you mean Tracksuit Man.”

“Yes.”

“I think he’s nice. Why do you ask?” Fenella slurps. She is drinking a banana milkshake.

“What’s that noise?”

“Sorry, I’ve just been to Shakey Shakey.”

“Shakey Shakey?”

“Stupid name, isn’t it? It’s new. They were giving away free milkshakes if you said you loved Shakey Shakey shakes into the camera.”

“What?”

“It’s not important. What have you been up to with Tracksuit Man?”

“Nothing. I’m not capable of doing anything.”

“Of course you are. Do you think you might want to do something with Boo?”

“Oh God.”

“What?”

“I haven’t told you, have I? I have a father and two brothers.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I have a cat too. Her name is Treacle. I’m not sure she likes me, but she seems to like the house.”

It’s finally happened. Miriam has gone mad. Conjured up a ready-made family, a cat, a potential boyfriend. “I’m coming over,” Fenella says. “I’ll be there in half an hour. Don’t worry, honey. You don’t need to worry.”

“Actually, I’m going out.”

“You’re what?”

“To an art class.”

“Miriam, are you telling the truth?”

“I am,” she says. “You can come too if you don’t believe me. You can meet the missing people.”

The missing people are back, only Miriam hadn’t known they were missing. Her grief had been indecipherable—a nonsensical poem, bending through her soul.