Whispers Through a Megaphone (4 page)

R
alph arrived home to find his house full of Leonard Cohen. How unusual—someone was playing some of
his
music. He made his way from room to room, bumping into no one. Was this his birthday present? An empty house and ‘A Thousand Kisses Deep’? If so, he liked it. It was the perfect gift.

He went to the bathroom and took a shower. With a towel wrapped around his waist, he walked into the bedroom to find that Sadie had emptied the entire contents of her wardrobe onto the bed. She was standing by the window, wearing a red bikini.

“Hello gorgeous,” she said.

“Hello.”

“Happy birthday.”

“Thanks. What’s going on in here?”

“I have one word for you darling, and it’s
Turkey
.”

“Turkey?”

“We should go to Turkey. What do you think? I’m just making sure I can still fit into my bikini.”

Ralph imagined spending an entire week on a beach with Sadie. He sat on the bed. He felt exhausted. He wondered if he
might be deficient in something, missing an essential vitamin, a vitamin that other people had plenty of. Vitamin D perhaps? He never used to feel this tired when he worked outside all day.

“I think Turkey would be fabulous,” Sadie said, joining him on the bed. “And we could invite Kristin and Carol. What do you think?”

“Why would we invite them?”

“They’re our friends.”

“I’m sure they’d rather go away on their own. Carol’s under huge pressure at work. She’s—”

Sadie was belly dancing in front of him. “She’s what, darling?”

“She’s under a lot of pressure,” he said, standing up.

Still dancing, she edged closer until her breasts were against his chest. “You like her, don’t you?” she said, kissing his neck.

“You know I’ve always liked her.”

“Yes, but I think you
like
her.”

“I’ve never liked her in that way.”

“Oh come on, Ralphy, I’ve seen the way you look at her.”

Then she was pulling him down onto the bed, his towel was on the floor, she was running her fingers through his wet hair, he was untying her bikini.

Afterwards, Sadie sat up against the pillows and grabbed her iPhone from the bedside table.

“What are you doing?” Ralph said.

“Just checking my messages.”

“Since when does checking them involve typing?”

“I’m tweeting.”

“Let me see.”

“Why?”

“I want to know what you’re writing.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“What you share with the world is none of my business?”

“Don’t be silly, Ralph.”

“I’m not being silly.”

“It’s only a quick tweet, you can read it later.”

He tried to snatch the phone from her hand. “Give me that fucking thing.”

“Get off me, will you? You’re hurting my arm.”

A tangle of damp limbs, writhing on the bed.

He pounced, pinning her down, reaching for the phone as it fell to the ground.

She wriggled free, hung off the bed, landed on the floor, crawled along the carpet.

He jumped to his feet as she clambered up, holding her phone, lifting it above her head, defiant. Then they were off again, lunging and wrestling.

“You’ve lost it,” she said, holding the phone behind her back. “You’ve really fucking lost it.”

“Give me that bloody phone.”

“I’d rather die than give you this phone.”

“Oh really?”

“You’re an arsehole.”

“I’m what?”

“I said you’re an arsehole.”

“Well you’re a fucking joke, Sadie.”

He grabbed her left wrist, reached around her for the phone, pushed himself against her. They landed against the wall, her
right arm still behind her back. She screamed until he let go and stumbled backwards.

“You bastard,” she said, covering her eye with her hand.

“I didn’t hit you.”

“You bloody well did.”

His shoulder had slammed into her face, just below her right eye. He tried to touch her, to see what he had done.

“Get off me.”

“Sadie, it was an accident.”

“An accident? You attacked me to get my phone.”

“For God’s sake, I didn’t attack you.”

“You tried to mug me.”

“You’re being hysterical. Let me see.”

“Just back off. I should call the police. I should tell them you raped me. How does that sound, darling? How’s
that
for a joke? Happy fucking birthday.”

His body recoiled. Internal damage. Invisible.

“Mum?” It was Arthur’s voice.

Sadie grabbed her dressing gown. Ralph snatched his towel off the bed and wrapped it around his waist. Arthur stared. He was wearing shorts and a pale-blue T-shirt with Keep Calm and Carry On across the front. Ralph hated that T-shirt. He hated the tea towels, mugs, posters, aprons, cufflinks and bags. What did people derive from the mass reproduction of government posters, designed to boost morale during the Second World War if Britain was invaded? How could that notion be uplifting? He didn’t get it. He had seen a baby in a pram wearing a Keep Calm and Carry On T-shirt last week. The baby was screaming. Last month, a client who had never been able to express his anger bought him a Keep Calm and Carry On postcard for his consulting room, and when Ralph refused to put it on the mantelpiece, explaining that it encouraged repression, the
client shouted so loudly that the counsellor working in the next room had to thump on the wall and yell KEEP IT DOWN.

The rapid musings of a nanosecond, then Ralph’s thoughts slumped back onto his wife. Could she feel them? Flabby indecipherable weights.

“I’m glad you’re home,” she said. “Can you go and mow the lawn?”

“What the hell’s going on?” Arthur said, his hands deep in his pockets.

“Nothing’s going on. The lawn really needs mowing before the party.”

“Are you all right? What’s wrong with your eye?”

“A little mishap.”

“Mishap?”

In Ralph’s mind, a swarm of broken sentences. The swarm split. It split again. He was ragged and torn, he was subdivided. Hate buzzed through him. Regret rose and fell in pathetic bursts. Not real regret—not the stuff that makes amends.

Sadie’s words were still in the room.

We should go to Turkey.

I should tell them you raped me.

Happy fucking birthday.

If they gave out awards for denial, Sadie would win every year. She was an expert, a pro. This domestic song and dance—
look at my bikini, let’s go to Turkey, I think you like Carol
—was a deflection.

Last week, Sadie and Kristin went to a reading at Mack’s, their local bookshop. The author was Rosanna Arquette, a poet. Much to the audience’s disappointment, this particular Rosanna Arquette was not the woman who played Roberta in
Desperately Seeking Susan
, but this was soon forgotten. The
poetry was dark, graphic, erotic. It was full of love that felt like pain and pain that felt like love. Rosanna spoke of bedposts, bruises and handcuffs. Clearly something had happened to this poet since her previous three collections, which were about nature, global warming and the Lake District.

Rows of small wooden chairs were packed tightly into alcoves. The windows were steamed up. Every complimentary glass of wine was empty. Wood creaked as people shifted position in their chairs, trying not to make a sound. Chris Preston, who owned the shop, wished he hadn’t sat beside Rosanna with every member of the audience facing him, looking him up and down for signs of arousal. Throughout the whole reading, he tried to think of nothing but his dead mother.

At the back of the crime section, Sadie resisted all attempts to stop breathing heavily. She closed her eyes and listened. She let the words take her. She gave in. Without thinking, she moved her leg so that it was touching Kristin’s. With her eyes still closed, and while Rosanna spoke of surrender and submission, she felt Kristin’s leg push back against hers. Then they were both pushing and something had changed, something had shot through them, and Sadie pushed so hard that Kristin’s left leg jutted into a shelf of Ruth Rendell paperbacks, knocking over a display copy of
Tigerlily’s Orchids
.

She opened her eyes.

It was over.

“Sadie Swoon, we are pleased to announce that you have won the annual Woman In Denial award for the sixteenth year running! How do you feel about that?”

“I have no idea what you’re saying but have you ever been to Turkey? I hear it’s lovely. Would you like to see me belly dance in my bikini?”

“M
iriam Delaney don’t you dare drop litter,” the headmaster said.

“I didn’t.”

“Yes you did, I saw you.” He dropped a sweet wrapper on the floor and winked.

They were standing in the playground. Children were running, screaming, shouting. Miriam had been leaning against the wall, reading
Charlotte’s Web
. The sun was shining. The playground was a thicket of skinny shadows.

“You’d better come to my office,” the headmaster said.

“I don’t think so.”

“I’ll give you a Tango.”

“I hate Tango.”

He leant forward. “I just want to talk,” he said. “Away from your mother.”

For once he was telling the truth. No one noticed them walk through the playground and into the main building because the headmaster was grey and brown and Miriam was only visible when the children were bored. He told her
to sit down. He had something important to say and she needed to listen.

“There have been rumours,” he said. “About me and your mother.”

She shrugged.

“Someone has seen me visiting your house. My line is this: I’m a friend of the family. I visit in a supportive capacity. Do you understand?”

She nodded.

“My wife is not to find out about this,” he said. “Your ongoing silence is appreciated.”

“Just leave me alone,” she said.

“Well that’s not very friendly.”

“I want to be left alone.”

He laughed and picked up a can of Tango from his desk. “Off you go,” he said. “And no more littering.”

She walked back to the playground, dropped the can in the bin, thought about the noise that came from her mother’s bedroom in the evenings before the front door opened and closed and there were footsteps, close at first, then moving further away. She thought of the headmaster’s wife, wondered what she looked like, wondered what she would think when Miriam found her and whispered the truth in her ear.

Miriam is watching series one of
The Bridge
. It is Swedish and Danish. Saga Norén, one of the two main characters, is Miriam’s definition of charming—she tells the truth and never speaks in riddles. Miriam whispers this observation aloud and feels her neck stiffen. Then her whole body is stiff, just like that. It’s a reflex. Historical.

She can’t hear you, Miriam.

You’re allowed to speak.

She’s dead, Miriam. Remember?

Frances Delaney had possessed a special kind of hearing. If Miriam made a noise, her ears picked it up and she followed the sound. She was like an animal, attuned to the pitch of her only child.

“Do you think I want to hear you talking, Mim? Going on and on and on? Do you? Button your lip. Just button it.”

“My name’s not Mim.”

“Everyone needs a nickname, Miriam. That’s the long and short of it.” Frances burst out laughing.

Mim, short for Miriam, and also the beginning of the words mimic and mime. It was fitting for a girl who was terrified of impersonating her mother and getting locked inside it—forever a copycat, a pale imitation.

“Imagine this,” Frances said. “Imagine that we’re not really people at all. We’re tiny woodland creatures. Can you picture it? No need for that school uniform today, Mim. We’re going to play in the woods. But just be quiet, you mustn’t disturb the creatures.”

Frances couldn’t bear the din of her offspring. She couldn’t bear the din of the world.

Washed lettuce must be washed.

Trimmed beans must be trimmed.

The world is full of liars and—

Miriam glances at the cuckoo clock and stands up. Her thoughts are turning strange again. This is what happens when she thinks for too long about her mother. She takes a deep breath and sits back down. She inhales though her nose, exhales through her mouth. Her eyes are closed, her breaths are long. She puts her hand on her stomach, feels it rising and falling and the memories stop. All she can hear now is what’s coming from the TV: a man singing about an echo stuttering
across a room. A new episode of
The Bridge
is starting. Its theme tune reminds her of Chris Isaak, wicked love, the possibility of something new.

She switches off the TV and jumps to her feet.

Move, Miriam.

She moves towards the radio, switches it on.

Yes, that’s it.

What she hears isn’t what she expects to hear. Who
is
that?

It’s Stevie Nicks, Miriam. It’s Fleetwood Mac.

A song about a woman who is a cat in the dark, darkness itself, a bell you can hear in the night.

Miriam wants to move again.

Her body is brave.

Her arms, branches in the wind.

She is dancing, swaying around the room in her black T-shirt and faded jeans, because today is a good day, closer to the end than the beginning. She is soon to emerge from the house like a missing person who no one has missed. The sun is shining. It is August and three years have passed. She has done her time and look at her dance and who cares if this is weird? Compared to the weird she has known, this dance in the middle of the living room is a demonstration of normality, sanity, logic. Frances had not allowed music. She had not allowed dancing.
Well look at this, mother. Look at this. I am dancing to a song called ‘Rhiannon’ and there’s nothing you can do to make it stop.

It’s good that Frances is dead. When Miriam thinks this while waving her arms, wiggling her hips, she does so with a twitchy mix of compassion and relief. Frances would never have coped with how the world has changed. For a start, she hated the very notion of the Internet. People living, breathing, speaking out in the world
and
inside all manner of objects? It was too crazy to be true. An online community, a small world
that never falls silent and never disappears, where every move you make can be seen by anyone?

Miriam stops dancing. She is being watched. It’s Boo the herbalist, walking past her window, looking in. She expects him to shout
peekaboo!
but he doesn’t, because Boo is a sensible man. A man with a habit of walking past Miriam’s front window as he makes his way from door to door, delivering home-printed leaflets about natural medicine. As usual, Boo is wearing his red tracksuit. His moustache is a flourish of curl on a tentative face.

Realizing that she has spotted him, he waves and sprints off, vowing to use the proper footpath next time so as not to disturb the intriguing lady who lives next door.

Miriam is tired now. She has been awake since five o’clock this morning. She doesn’t seem to need as much sleep as she used to. So far today she has made a lemon drizzle cake, cleaned the kitchen with a new range of eco products, emptied her mother’s wardrobe, watched four episodes of
The Bridge
and danced around the living room, clapping her hands and kicking her legs. It is unusual for Miriam to be gleeful like this, because her default personality setting is melancholy infused with kindness, which sounds like a room spray for introverts. What might that smell of? Not grapefruit and ginger—too zingy, too energetic. Not patchouli or bergamot—too musky, too sweet. Not wild mint—too much like sticking your face straight into a pot of herbs.

She sprays the hallway with vanilla, goes into the kitchen and makes herself a cheese and pickle sandwich. Then it’s time to return to the bin bags.

Over the past two days, Miriam has been throwing things away. The patio in the back garden is now hidden beneath a pile of black bags. The bags are spilling onto the grass and the
rockery. Soon they will be in the pond with the goldfish and koi carp. The past is taking over and the fish can see it coming; they are deep down, hidden beneath the weeds.

Miriam picks up the phone. “Fenella, I have a question.”

Fenella mumbles something. Her mouth is full of Wotsits.

“Are you eating crisps again?”

“I might be.”

“I need to know how to get one of those metal boxes outside my house.”

“Metal boxes?”

“For rubbish.”

“Do you mean a skip?”

“That’s it, a skip. How do you get one of those?”

“You call a company and order one. They’ll drop it off and collect it for you. Just one problem, though.”

“What?”

“You’ll have to leave your house to put stuff in the skip.”

“Can I hire a man?”

“One can
always
hire a man.” Fenella bites a cheese puff in half and giggles. It is not an attractive sound. She accidentally snorts, which has been happening more and more lately. The snort silences her. What if it finds its way into every laugh from now until her dying day? And if she dies laughing, does this mean she will die snorting, like a common pig that finds death funny?

“Fenella?”

“Yes.”

“My garden is full of black bin bags.”

“Well that’s easy to fix. You don’t need a skip for that. Just dump them on your porch like you usually do and ask your neighbour to drag them onto the pavement. The bin men will take them away.”

“Even if there are twenty bags?”

“I don’t think there’s a limit.”

Unlimited history. A past with no boundaries. It is finished but it never ends.

“You’re brilliant,” Miriam says.

“I know,” Fenella says. She finishes her crisps and opens a second bag. Life is for living, she thinks.

“Have you heard of Stevie Nicks?” Miriam says.

“The singer?”

“Yes.”

“I have. Why?”

“You never told me about her.”

“Sorry?”

“Well, I’ve only just discovered her.”

Fenella laughs. “I can’t tell you about every singer and every band,” she says.

“I just wish I’d known about her before.”

“Why?”

Miriam thinks for a moment. “I heard a song and it made me feel something,” she says.

“Something?”

“I felt like me and not like me. It was surprising.”

Fenella smiles. “You make me laugh,” she says.

“Also, I’ve been watching
The Bridge
.”

“Have you? What do you think?”

“I love it.”

“I thought you might. Do you like Saga?”

“She’s very nice.”

“I’ll lend you
The Killing
next. I’ve got three series. It’s Danish.”

“Thanks.”

“You’ll love Sarah Lund.”

There is a pause. Miriam has no idea who Sarah Lund is.

“You know my brown and cream jumper?”

“The one that cost three hundred pounds?”

“It was two hundred and sixty, but yes, that one. It’s in
The Killing
.”

“What, that actual jumper?”

“Well no, not
my
jumper.”

Miriam doesn’t know what Fenella is going on about, but this makes her a handy person to know. Fenella is always in the loop.

“It’s organic and self-cleaning. Special oils in the wool, apparently. I never have to wash it.”

“Doesn’t it get smelly?”

“Not really.”

The most expensive jumper Miriam ever bought cost fifty pounds from M&S. It was cashmere. Her mother shrank it on purpose. She said it was a symbol of corruption and greed. An hour later, it was small enough to fit one of the Queen’s corgis.

“Actually, I probably won’t have time to watch any more box sets.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“You’re almost ready?”

“Any day now,” Miriam says.

“Hello, is that Mr Boo?”

Boo knows that it’s Miriam. She is the only person who calls him Mr Boo.

“This is Boo. How may I help you, Miriam?”

“I have a favour to ask in return for a lemon drizzle cake.”

“I accept.”

“I haven’t told you what it is.”

“I don’t care. I love lemon drizzle cake, and I will never refuse you, Miriam.”

“Goodness.”

By the end of the day, the goldfish and koi carp have risen from the depths of the pond. The patio has been power-hosed by a man in a red tracksuit whose stomach is full of lemon cake. He has offered to pop round tomorrow to give the windows a deep clean with the new squeegee he bought from Lucetta the travelling saleswoman—another woman he can never refuse.

“Oh, and I will leave you this,” Boo says, holding out a bottle.

“What is it?”

“A remedy for dancers with tired legs.”

The bottle is full of luminous liquid, glow-in-the-dark green. It feels warm, which is comforting and disturbing.

“Thank you,” Miriam says. “You’ve been a lovely neighbour over the past few years.”

“I only moved in last June.”

“That’s right,” she says, wondering if Boo’s tracksuit is velour. It would only take a few accessories to make him Santa.

That night, before getting into bed, Miriam looks out of her bedroom window. In the half-light, Beckford Gardens looks like a rubbish tip. Frances Delaney’s belongings are out in the street: her clothes, her cheap jewellery, her cookbooks, even her bedding. Tomorrow, men in thick gloves will take them away and Miriam will be watching. Should she peer through the window? Wear black and stand in silence in front of the house? Her mother is inside the bags: her fingerprints, her handwriting, the fabric that covered her body, the beads that hung from her neck. But what about the bowler hat, Miriam? The one she found in a charity shop, the one she wore non-stop until her dying day, her final act. Why is
that
still here in your bedroom, watching you from the top of a chest of drawers?

A desire to run outside and pull every bag back into the house rises into Miriam’s throat. It tastes of bile. She closes the curtains as far as they will close, gets into bed, switches off the lamp. Beside her, something is glowing. She opens her eyes. It is Boo’s luminous remedy, impossibly bright. She immediately falls asleep.