Whispers Through a Megaphone (24 page)

B
oo parks his car in Ralph’s drive and looks up at the house. “Very smart,” he says. “I like your guttering and your black front door.”

“Thanks.”

“Shall I help you carry these things in?”

Camping gear, a guitar, a rucksack. They place them by the front door and Boo gets back in his car.

“Thanks,” Ralph says, not wanting to invite Boo inside. “And thanks for the lift.”

“See you soon,” Boo says. It’s a command, not a social nicety.

Ralph looks at the guttering and the black front door. He never notices these things. They are just there, like the piece of stained glass above the door, like the willow tree and the roses.

Sadie is not returning his calls. She’s in regular contact with their sons, he knows this from talking to his parents, but the flow of information ends there. It’s ridiculous, silly, it has to stop.

He opens the front door and is assaulted by his mother’s voice, singing along to Cyndi Lauper, ‘Girls Just Want to Have
Fun’. He hasn’t heard her sing that loudly for years—not since she went through her phase of singing ‘I Want to Break Free’ over and over again, usually while doing the hoovering. (She went through a ‘Steamy Windows’ phase too, but Ralph has chosen to forget her Tina Turner impersonations. They disturbed him. They disturbed everyone.)

Harvey appears, jumps all over him, licks his face. “Well this is a nice welcome,” he says, rubbing the dog’s head. “Good boy, Harvey. Who’s a good boy?”

On the table in the hallway, a bunch of fresh tulips. In the air, the smell of baking bread.

This is not his house. It is and it isn’t. It smells like his parents’ house.

He pokes his head into the living room. “Hi, Arthur.”

Arthur is lying on the sofa in his pyjamas, watching
Breaking Bad
. That’s more like it—a familiar sight. “Dad?” he says, turning around. He stands up, points the remote at the TV, switches it off. Ralph has never seen him do this before. He’s seen him switch the TV on a thousand times, but never off.
Breaking Bad
has gone, mid-episode.
Gone
. Arthur’s hands are deep in his pockets and he is staring at his father. “Are you all right?” he says.

“I think so.”

“That’s good. Where have you been?”

“I’ve been camping.”

“Right.”

“I needed some space.”

“Right.”

“Have you heard from your mum?”

“We spoke to her first thing.”

“This morning?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“Maybe you should give her a call.”

“Is she all right?”

“She’s good. Would you like a cup of tea?”

Does he even know how to make a cup of tea? What’s going on?

Ralph wants to say bloody hell I should go away more often, but he doesn’t. Arthur’s politeness is serious, tentative. His concern is like a multicoloured coat, garish and strange on his back. On his brother it would be a lambswool V-neck jumper. Anyone would think Ralph had just been discharged from hospital or had returned with broken bones. Why is he so concerned?

Footsteps on the stairs. Not one set of footsteps, but two.

“Dad?”

“Mr Swoon?”

Stanley and Joe, red-faced. They throw their arms around Ralph, who has never experienced a group hug before. He resists the urge to dive onto the floor and put his hands over his head.

“You okay, Dad?”

“I’m just fine.”

“Good to see you, Mr Swoon.”

“Please, call me Ralph. You’re making me feel old.”

Three teenagers, standing in the hallway, staring.

“I’ll make a pot of tea,” Arthur says.

Ralph glances at Stanley, expecting him to respond with surprise or sarcasm, but his face is quiet and kind.

Eerie. That’s what it is. This house is fucking eerie.

The boys move towards the kitchen but Ralph doesn’t follow.

“There’s a loaf in the oven,” Stanley says.

“Blimey,” Ralph says. He looks at the black TV screen, the vase of pink tulips.

More footsteps on the stairs. His parents this time. He sees his mother first, smiling and freshly permed, like a cartoon that a child would draw of a curly-haired woman: tight ringlets, indistinct face.

“You’re back,” she shouts. “Oh how
lovely
.”

“Yes I am.”

Brenda hugs her son, Frank pats him on the back.

“Are you all stoned?” Ralph says.

“What on earth do you mean, dear?” Brenda says. “We’re pleased to see you.”

Is that
pity
on her face?

In the kitchen, on the breakfast bar,
How to Be a Domestic Goddess
by Nigella Lawson has been left open on a page about meringues. Beside the cookbook there is a home-made pavlova.

“I’m going to call your mum,” Ralph says.

The Swoons look at one another.

“We’ll be here,” Brenda says.

Upstairs, on the bed, he calls his wife. “Oh, I didn’t expect you to pick up. How are you?
Where
are you?”

“I’m at a hotel,” Sadie says.

“Where? And why?”

“Oh Ralph.”

“I’m back,” he says.

“In what way?”

“I’m at home. Everyone’s here.”

“I doubt that very much.”

“No, they are.”

“
Your
everyone, maybe. Not mine. Anyway, if you’re back your parents can leave.”

“There’s no rush.”

“Oh there is.”

“When are you coming home?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why don’t we meet somewhere? Somewhere neutral.”

“Why would we want to do that?”

“Look, I’ll call you tonight. We’re about to go for a walk.”

“We?”

“Yes.”

The line goes dead. He lies down, closes his eyes, wonders what to do. He could find out where she’s staying, drive to the hotel, bring her back.

Footsteps again. So many footsteps. Then he is surrounded. They are standing by the bed, his parents, his sons and Joe, looking at him as though he’s a broken man, a man who can’t move and needs nursing. Arthur puts a tray on the bedside table, there’s a mug of tea, a croissant, a glass of juice.

“What?” Ralph says. “What are you all looking at? Why are you being so
nice
?”

“H
ello there,” Angelina says. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

Miriam isn’t sure why, but she feels like she’s meeting some kind of rock star. All she knows about this woman is she’s very patient and a whizz in the kitchen.

“Hello, Mrs Delaney,” she whispers. She holds out her hand and smiles.

Mrs Delaney
—what a strange thing to say to someone who is not her mother. It’s like addressing an actor who is playing the part of Mrs Delaney. But she is not an actor, she’s an ordinary woman, an A instead of an F.

“Call me Angelina,” the woman says.

“Angelina,” Miriam says, and the woman laughs, which is unbearable for a second, until Miriam realizes that there is nothing sharp inside the laugh.

“And this is Alfie.”

A boy steps out from behind his mother’s legs. He is wearing jeans, a blazer, a shirt, a bow tie. He is clutching a doll, which he holds out in front of him.

Miriam kneels down. “Hello, Amy Pond. How are you today?”

“Amy’s very well thank you,” the boy says.

“That’s good,” Miriam says.

Wow, Alfie thinks. She knows Amy Pond. Who else does she know? “Would you like a lemonade?” he says.

“Are you having one?”

“I am.”

“Then I’d love one, thank you.”

“All right.”

Alfie leads Miriam into the kitchen, leaving Eric and Angelina by the front door.

“Are you okay?” she says.

“I think so. Is Matthew back?”

“He’s upstairs.”

“Right.”

“I made a fish pie. Do you think she might like some?”

“I have no idea.”

They stand in silence and she strokes his face. He is trying not to cry.

“It’s all right,” she says.

He shakes his head, grits his teeth.

“It’s all right,” she says, wiping his tears with her thumb.

They sit around the dining table, Miriam Delaney and four brand-new Delaneys. It’s not the kind of thing that should scare a person to death, but it does.

Miriam feels freakish, exposed.

Can they hear her heart inside her chest?

Surely everyone can hear it.

She blinks. Blinks again. The other Delaneys are still here, but that doesn’t mean they are real.

Maybe she has imagined them.

Maybe this isn’t really happening.

The mind is a fairground of unearthly rides. Intrapsychic theme parks. The constant rattle of ghost trains.

Is this an alternative reality, made by her own mind?

Welcome to the Normal Family Life amusement park, Miriam. Please leave your shoes by the entrance.

Oh no.

What if…

What if she is still sitting at home with her mother and there was no visit to the cinema, no Florence Cathcart, no men in the woods looking for three metal tins, no Ralph, no cat, no Boo. What if the agile fingers of anxiety have weaved this new world. All of it, up to this moment, her mother’s tapestry. A sick joke. A machine plugged into her brain while her body stays still.

She wants to run.

To never see another person again.

But there is a voice. It says, “Would you like some fish pie, Miriam?”

It’s the rock star speaking. She is holding an orange casserole dish.

“Are you having some?” Miriam says.

“I am.”

“All right then. Thank you.”

Calm down, Miriam. Think of Fenella. Think of something nice, like
The Bridge.
Think of Saga in that greenish-brown Porsche. Wouldn’t it be nice to take a drive in that car?

If Fenella were here now she would say nice one, honey—ten out of ten for self-soothing.

“This must be weird for you,” Matthew says.

“It is.”

“I can imagine,” Angelina says.

“Can you?”

“Of course. It must be quite nerve-wracking.”

“Yes.”

They nod, all of them, even Alfie and Amy Pond are nodding. Telling it like it is. Saying it’s weird and nerve-wracking. Which is interesting, because this makes it less weird and nerve-wracking. Is this what Fenella has been trying to show her—how stating the obvious
changes
the obvious?

“Why do you keep whispering?” Alfie says, just as Angelina puts a spoonful of fish pie on Miriam’s plate.

“Alfie, that’s really rude,” Eric says.

Miriam cups her hands together on her lap. “No, it’s not rude,” she says.

Alfie says he’s sorry and looks down at the table.

“Whispering kept me alive.”

Alfie thinks for a while about what this means. “Like you’d die if you didn’t?” he says.

“Sort of, yes. Or that’s how it felt.”

He looks at his mother, his father, his brother. He bends Amy Pond’s legs into a sitting position, gets off his chair, walks around the table until he reaches Miriam and places Amy in front of her, just beside the plate full of fish pie and peas. He returns to his chair, sips his lemonade, picks up his knife and fork.

They talk about the art class and the art teacher.

They talk about how Angelina went swimming today and did twenty-five lengths.

They talk about what Eric does for a living—how he used to be a mechanic,
way back when
.

Way back when you were my dad, Miriam thinks.

Matthew opens a bottle of red wine. He thinks about the sketch he made of Miriam earlier today, wonders why he drew her as an owl.

“I’m having a really late night,” Alfie says. “I’m allowed, though. Mum said so.”

“Have you shown Miriam what you made?” Angelina says.

The boy’s eyes widen. “Can I get it now? Can I get it?”

He has gone and now he is back. The boy is fast. Super fast. “I drew you a spaceship,” he says. “It has four bedrooms and two toilets and this is a room just for rabbits and this is a room for playing games in and this is where the driver can sit.”

Miriam inspects the drawing. “This is the best spaceship I’ve ever seen.”

“Is it?”

“I want to get in this right now,” she says. “It’s perfect.”

“
I
want to get in it.”

“May I keep this?”

Alfie nods.

“Thank you.”

Matthew has something for her too, but he doesn’t want to overshadow the spaceship. He drinks wine, eats fish pie and waits for Alfie to be sent to bed, which takes ages, because Alfie has become hyperactive. He’s asking Miriam about
Doctor Who
. What’s your favourite episode? Who do you like best? Do you find it scary? Do you like my bow tie? Why don’t
you
get a bow tie?

Finally, he looks tired. His lips are still moving but his eyes are red.

“Time for bed now, Alfie.”

“Not yet.”

“Alfie.”

“Will you be here when I wake up?” he says.

“Depends when you wake up,” Miriam says.

“Where are you sleeping?”

“In my house.”

“I’ve been to your house.”

“Alfie, go and get in your pyjamas. I’m not saying it again.”

“I’ll go with him,” Matthew says.

A kitchen cupboard opens, but it’s not a cupboard, it’s a dishwasher. Miriam has never seen a dishwasher before, especially one that looks like a cupboard. She asks how it works and whether it’s noisy. Angelina shows her how they put in cups, plates and cutlery, then a capsule of powder and liquid. That’s about it really, she says, as she closes the door and sets the cycle.

“Clever,” Miriam says.

“Yes,” Angelina says.

There is a pot of coffee. Chocolate biscuits. Angelina asks Miriam if she likes where she lives and she says yes, it’s okay, my neighbours are nice.

Matthew is back. He tells them Alfie is awake but at least he’s in bed. He drinks his coffee, eats a biscuit, says he’s just going to get something for Miriam, won’t be a sec. His parents look puzzled. He returns holding a box wrapped in glossy pink paper.

“For you,” he says.

Miriam takes it. A gift? For her? “But I’ve already had a spaceship,” she says. She feels full of panic. They are watching her. What should she do with her face while she opens the gift? What’s the required response? The tempo of social life is so hard to get right.
Don’t be too loud, don’t be too quiet, don’t be too reserved, don’t be too excited
. It’s such a performance.

She tears the paper.

You can do this.

Opens the box.

Almost over. Don’t squeal, don’t cry.

Lifts out her gift.

A white and red megaphone.

“It’s a thing of beauty,” she says, because it is, she’s not lying, she doesn’t have to pretend.

“I thought so too,” Matthew says.

Later that evening, Miriam’s mind and body become unbearably heavy. She is not used to this much conversation all in one day, or this many people all in one room. “I’d better be going,” she says.

“I’ll drive you home,” Eric says.

“I can get the bus.”

“Definitely not.”

“You could stay over?”

“I don’t have my pyjamas and toothbrush.”

“I have spare ones,” Angelina says.

Goodness me. Doesn’t she know that it’s
way
too soon to step into another woman’s pyjamas? There is a limit to how many new things a person can do in one day, and Miriam reached that limit hours ago. “Actually, I have to feed my cat.”

“No problem.”

“Do you mind if I step outside for a few minutes?”

“Are you all right?” Eric says.

“I just need a little air,” she says, picking up the megaphone from the coffee table and clutching it to her chest.

Eric unlocks the back door and watches his daughter step outside. He’s about to ask if she would like some company but something stops him. He closes the door.

Upstairs in bed, Alfie is unable to sleep. He sings a lullaby to Amy Pond, who has just had a nightmare in which everyone she loved disappeared. He listens to the voices coming from downstairs, hears the back door open and close. Someone has gone outside.

He climbs out of bed, rushes to the window, wonders what’s happening in the back garden. The outside light has come on. He can see his Swingball, his racket, his shark and his new sister. He grabs Amy Pond and runs downstairs.

Miriam walks across the grass.

She passes the Swingball, the lime-green tennis racket, the rubber shark.

She looks up at the sky.

Lifts the megaphone to her lips.

Whispers into it.

“Testing, testing. This is Miriam Delaney. Is anyone there?”

She looks back at the house and sees four faces peering at her through the kitchen window.

“Testing, testing. This is Miriam Delaney.”