Whispers Through a Megaphone (5 page)

F
or his birthday, Arthur and Stanley had bought him a ticket to see Leonard Cohen. Ralph looked for a second ticket in the envelope but there was only one. Sadie had bought him a black shirt, a pair of trousers, three pairs of socks and a feng shui owl for his office.

“Thank you,” he said, with the presents on his lap. “They’re all lovely.”

Sadie was pressing a bag of frozen peas against her face. “You’re welcome.”

“Why the owl?” he asked, holding it up to inspect it.

“It represents wisdom. Helps you acquire it, apparently.” She tried to smile. Her sneer was another small failure.

“Right.”

Putting aside the matter of the swollen eye and frozen peas, Sadie looked beautiful this afternoon. She was wearing old jeans and her I Love New York T-shirt. Ralph remembered her buying the T-shirt from a store near Central Park while they were on holiday three years ago—their first holiday alone since the twins were born. She put the T-shirt on there and
then, in the middle of the store, pulling it down over her white long-sleeved top. He preferred her like this, natural and relaxed, but by the time their guests arrived this evening she would be dolled up and pretty in heavy make-up. What had happened to the woman he went to New York with? Yes, the cracks were beginning to show, but as they drank cocktails in their Tribeca hotel, called his parents to check on the boys, hunted for paperbacks in the Strand bookshop, walked through Central Park to the Guggenheim Museum, they were happy. Well, perhaps not happy, because happy is difficult to define, but they respected each other. She was in old jeans and old trainers, with a heart on her T-shirt and a hot dog in her hand. It was simple, it was easy. She took his photo in the park because she liked him.

“Anyway, I’d better get changed,” said Sadie, leaving Ralph alone in the kitchen with Arthur, Stanley and the cocker spaniel.

“I know it’s your birthday, Dad, but we have to ask,” said Stanley.

“Ask what?”

“Did you hit Mum?”

“Of course not. I would never hit your mother.”

“What the fuck happened then?” said Arthur.

“Why do you feel the need to swear all the time?”

“Just answer the question.”

“We were messing about. I was tickling her.”

“Tickling her?”

“Yes. Haven’t you ever tickled anyone?”

Stanley wanted to say actually yes, I’ve been tickling Joe Schwartz and he’s been tickling me. Instead, he found himself asking if anyone fancied a glass of Ribena. Telling his parents that he was gay wasn’t the problem—he knew they wouldn’t care. The problem was telling them something personal,
revealing, sexual. Did they really need to know the intimate details of his private life?

“No thanks,” said Ralph. “I’ll have a lager, though.”

“I’ll have a lager too,” said Arthur. “But no fucking Ribena. What are you, eight years old?”

“People of all ages drink Ribena. Stop trying to show everyone you’re a grown-up, it’s really boring.”

Ralph smiled, which made Arthur want to pick him up and throw him across the kitchen.

Upstairs, Sadie applied all the usual make-up, apart from foundation. She had no intention of covering up her husband’s mistakes, which were swelling on her cheek and around her eye. She set a Suzanne Vega album playing and turned up the volume. How had Suzanne Vega’s music eluded her until now? She had been listening to this acoustic collection of old songs on repeat over the past few weeks. It was poetic, funny, clever, romantic. It belonged to Kristin.

Arthur stood beside his father, swigging Peroni from the bottle, appeasing his own toxicity. How did he know that he was toxic? His mother told him after his and Stanley’s sixth birthday party. “How did I end up with such a toxic son?” she said, her hands gripping his shoulders. “What’s wrong with you? You have everything a boy could ask for. Why are
you always sulky or angry? Why can’t you be more like your brother? Look at him, Arthur. I said look at him. He’s smiling, see? That’s what normal boys do. They smile every now and then.”

TOXIC. The word had lit up inside his brain. He was hot-headed, headstrong. He was
poisonous
.

Years later, Arthur read about a psychological experiment in which one group of children (group A) were told that they were especially clever and another (group B) that they were less clever. In the tests that followed, every child in group A achieved better results than they used to, while the little Bs got lower results and seemed unmotivated. Over time, motivation levels in group A also began to fluctuate (if you’ve been labelled “clever”, why bother to try and
appear
clever?). Arthur read about this experiment and shook his head. It reminded him of something—something uncomfortable—but he couldn’t quite reach it. All this thinking made his head hurt, so he finished his chicken sandwich and went into the back garden to throw a chair across the lawn.

“Hormones,” the doctor said. “He’s brimming with hormones. And if you call him toxic, that’s what he’ll become. I should know. I’m toxic. I shoot pigeons for fun. Real ones. It’s not illegal. It’s pest control. But keep it to yourself. Is there anything else I can do for you, Mrs Swoon?”

“What did it feel like?” said Arthur.

“What?”

“Hitting Mum.”

Ralph stood up and slammed his bottle on the table. “I’m going to say this one last time, all right? I did not, I repeat
not
, hit your mother. I’ve never hit a woman in my life. Have you got that?”

Arthur shrugged.

“What kind of question is that anyway? What a fucked-up thing to ask.”

“Now who’s swearing?”

Stanley was standing in the garden with a pint of Ribena. He looked around at the multicoloured lanterns hanging from trees, the citronella candles waiting to be lit, the chairs positioned in a semicircle to the left of his mother’s gargantuan, top-of-the-range, six-burner gas barbecue. It arrived last summer after another of her trips to B&Q. She had called it a
symbol of independence
.

“I will not be a suburban cliché,” she announced, releasing the shiny red beast from its cardboard cage while her family watched. “I’m not going to cook all week in the privacy of our home, then have my husband stand in the garden in front of our friends, tossing burgers like he’s king of the cooking, king of the barbecue, king of everything while I run in and out of the house, in and out all the time, carrying bowls of lettuce. I refuse to become one of those women who stands by while her husband takes the glory. If I cook in private, I cook in public.”

“Fine by me,” said Ralph.

It was fine and it was not fine. He hated the pressure of barbecues, having to stand there in a silly apron and produce the perfect burger (chargrilled but not burnt, tender but well done) for everyone they knew. He was glad she wanted to take over, but his gladness was not the whole story. He felt as though something had been stolen that he couldn’t describe. The longer they were married, the stronger this sense of unknowable loss.

Stanley sat on the wooden bench at the bottom of the garden and looked up at the house. He could see the shape of his mother upstairs in the bathroom, fiddling with her hair in front of the mirror. She wasn’t like other mothers. She did all the driving when they went on holiday. She bought his father
flowers and chocolates. “Norms thrive because they’re invisible,” she once said, holding a bunch of roses. “It’s only when I overturn them that you’re able to spot them. Do you get what I’m saying? Why are you looking so fed up?”

The kitchen door opened and closed, revealing Harvey, black and glossy, tumbling towards him, landing on his lap, making him laugh. Daft dog, running up and down the bench, licking his face, jumping off again, pulling a paper lantern from a low branch and ripping it to shreds.

Inside the house, Ralph was on the phone to his father.

“Happy birthday, son.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“How old are you now?”

“Thirty-seven.”

“Thirty-seven, deary me.”

“Are you still coming tonight?”

“Of course. Your mother has prickly heat, but we’re still coming. She thinks her sweat glands might be blocked.”

“Are you sure it’s prickly heat? It’s not that hot out.”

“I never argue with your mother’s diagnoses. She’s here now, she’s grabbing the—”

“Hello?”

“Hi, Mum.”

“Happy birthday, dear. Are you having a good day?”

“Lovely, thanks.”

“What have you been doing?”

“I popped into work this morning, but other than that, just pottering really.” He thought of Sadie, naked on the bedroom floor, crawling away from him. “What time are you coming over?”

“What time are we allowed to come?”

“You don’t have to ask that.”

“Oh I do.”

She was referring to the secret contract. A few years ago, Frank and Brenda had decided to move closer to Ralph and their grandsons. Before they sold their bungalow, Sadie posted an agreement for them to sign and return as discreetly as possible. She was advised to do this by an agony aunt called Suzie who worked in the local farm shop. Suzie kept a cardboard box in the corner of the shop for customers’ letters, which she promised to respond to within a week if the writer supplied their initials. She left her replies—short, blunt, alphabetized—in a basket beside the organic dog biscuits. Suzie made the biscuits too. She was multitalented, buxom, often warm, often sharp, depending on the day. Sadie found her trashy and intimidating and she longed for her approval.

1. We, Frank and Brenda Swoon, realize that this agreement is for the benefit of
   all
   parties.
   
2. We promise not to turn up unannounced at the home of Ralph and Sadie when we move to the same town, despite the fact that we are prone to bouts of spontaneous excitement and affection. We will always telephone first.
   
3. We acknowledge that everyone needs privacy and space.
   
4. By moving closer to Ralph and Sadie, we are not expecting them to meet our needs and care for us in old age.
   
5. We realize that Sadie is protecting us with this agreement, not herself. She is minimizing the chance
   of conflict, thereby maintaining good relations all round.
   
6. We can confirm, before selling our property, that we definitely plan to buy another property. We have no intention of living with our son, daughter-in-law and grandsons, because we realize that this would be unhealthy.
   
7. This agreement is a private matter between Sadie Swoon, Frank Swoon and Brenda Swoon.
   

“Come over any time you like,” said Ralph. “You’re always welcome, you know that.”

“What time are other people arriving?”

“About seven-thirty.”

“So that’s when we’ll arrive.”

Ralph sighed. Today was hard work. “Dad said you have prickly heat.”

“Did he? Fancy telling you that. Well don’t worry, I’ll cover myself up. I’ve bought new trousers and a lovely yellow cardy from TK Maxx. They’re women’s golf clothes. Quite nice, I think. I’ve never tried golf. Have you tried golf? Did I mention that Auntie Madge has piles?”

Ralph knocked on the bathroom door.

“What?”

“We need to talk.”

“No we don’t.”

“Of course we do. Before tonight.”

“I don’t see any point.”

“Sadie, can you unlock the door?”

“Not right now.”

“Why not?”

“I’m on the loo.”

“No you’re not.”

“How do you know?”

“I can tell.”

“How?”

“Just let me in.”

“No.”

“Why are you listening to Suzanne Vega? You hate Suzanne Vega.”

“I do not hate Suzanne Vega, I’ve never said that.”

“Are you smoking in there?”

“Of course not.”

“What’s that smell then? Are you tweeting and smoking?”

Ralph thought about kicking the door down. Was he even able to do such a thing? Was he strong enough? He’d seen it done a thousand times in films, but the doors were probably made of imitation wood with fake locks. Did he and Sadie have a fake marriage? They had sex today. Sex means hope, surely? He told himself that if Sadie unlocked the door within the next two minutes, everything would be all right. She would find him and he would find her. He looked at his watch. He waited. He listened to the music coming from the bedroom, a song about a soldier and a queen, and he followed its narrative, mesmerized by the words and the melody, wondering what it was called, walking into the bedroom to find out, not hearing the bathroom door open and close as Sadie made her way downstairs.

T
o celebrate their one-year anniversary and the way they first met, Frances Delaney and the headmaster entered a nudist phase. (Why say it with flowers when you can say it with your whole body?) It was during this time that Miriam started to wear as many items of clothing as she could, all at once. While her mother sprinted around the house, naked apart from her bowler hat, talking about the end of the world and how they must prepare, Miriam sat in front of the TV in pyjamas, jeans, three T-shirts, five jumpers and a bobble hat. It was an act of rebellion, a corrective impulse:
I will wear the missing clothes so that the clothes are no longer missing
. And it was HOT. Miriam’s super-smart unconscious hadn’t thought of that when it spawned the corrective impulse. She wobbled from room to room, feverish and slow, wondering if five jumpers could kill a person. She pictured five jumpers hovering in front of her with machine guns. Death by excessive knitwear. She was delirious. By trying not to be her mother she had ended up just like her. Would this become the pattern of her life?

She ran upstairs, feeling like the Honey Monster, and took off all her clothes apart from her Batman underpants (Frances hadn’t been able to find any Batman knickers, because only boys have superheroes on their underwear, according to the lady who owned the shop). She looked at herself in the mirror: a girl in boys’ pants with no control over anything in the world. The headmaster popped his head around the door. “Dinner’s ready, Miriam. Chop chop. Nice pants.”

A ceramic cow. A Superman pyjama top. A pair of Batman underpants. A fisherman’s jumper, bought for a girl who had never been fishing. Miriam found these things this morning in the cupboard on the landing. Why had her mother kept them? Frances had never been a hoarder—she preferred throwing things away to keeping them. When people bought her presents she said she felt burdened, saddled, loaded.

Miriam squeezes into the Superman pyjama top. I’m wearing the past, she thinks, or is the past wearing me?

She takes it off and wanders into the kitchen. From here she can see Boo’s legs and feet. He is halfway up a ladder, cleaning her windows with his new squeegee, whistling the theme tune from
The Littlest Hobo
. Two cloths hang from his back pockets, one to remove the dirt, the other to polish the glass. Boo is taking this seriously because he takes Miriam seriously. She isn’t used to it. It is peculiar.

“Can I get you a cup of tea, Mr Boo?” she asks, through the kitchen window.

“Miriam, that’s most kind.”

“Not really. What’s kind is you cleaning my windows.”

“Do you have any herbal tea?”

“No. Just normal tea.”

“That’ll be lovely, thank you.”

While she is making tea, Miriam hears the letterbox open and close. It’s another postcard. On the front, a photo of a black cat stretched out across a wooden floor. On the back, in handwriting that has now become familiar:

Instead of putting this one on the noticeboard with the others, Miriam stands it beside the kettle so that she can look at it every time she makes a hot drink.

The ceramic cow. It’s also there, near the kettle. She picks it up, runs her fingers along the cracks sealed with glue.

“Imagine that your buttons are your friends,” said Frances.

“Why are we always imagining?” said Miriam. “What’s wrong with ordinary things?”

“No one wants an ordinary life.”

“I do.”

“No you don’t, you just think you do. Wouldn’t you rather have buttons with voices and personalities than boring buttons with nothing to say?”

“Not really, I like my buttons as they are. I think they’re beautiful.”

Frances slapped her daughter’s face. “Beautiful? Really?”

Miriam didn’t cry. Not any more. She fastened herself up tight, held on to her tears. One day they would all come out in a great hysterical flood, a great
historical
flood, but not now, not in front of her mother. She gritted her teeth, curled her fists, focused on the ceramic cow on the mantelpiece. It was the only ornament in the house.
I don’t care what you like and don’t like, Mim, we will not be weighed down by dusty objects, do you hear me?
Don’t you look at me like that—I let you keep your buttons, don’t I? Not to mention all the stamps for your precious little letters to my dreary mother. I don’t know what you see in her, I really don’t.

Stamps instead of pocket money. Letters instead of visits.

Miriam picked up the ceramic cow, carried it to the bottom of the garden and threw it on the ground as hard as she could. Fragments of a fake cow, reimagined in clay, scattered all over the patio. “You were never actually a cow,” she whispered. “You were just dotty pottery.” She giggled, then picked up one of the pieces. It was sharp. It made her finger bleed. The sight of her own blood surprised her. She was
alive
.

Miriam shakes her head. The silence of the past three years has made things louder than ever. That’s what silence does.
It amplifies the sound of what was here and what was never here. Hibernation has turned this house into a cinema and every room has its own screen. The snacks are poor, the intervals short.

She opens the kitchen window and passes Boo his tea.

“Oh lovely,” he says.

“Would you like to drink it indoors?”

Boo looks surprised. Miriam has never invited him in before. “Are you quite sure?”

She nods. Two minutes later, Boo’s trainers are positioned neatly by the back door and he is sitting at the dining table, drinking tea, while Miriam explains that it is almost time.

“Almost time for what, Miriam?”

“Time for me to leave the house.”

Boo looks disappointed. “You’re a mystery to me,” he says.

“Am I?”

“Yes. There are many things I’d like to ask you.”

“Really?”

He nods. “I often wonder about your voice. Perhaps you have a medical condition that makes you speak so quietly? I wonder about your agoraphobia too.”

“I’m not agoraphobic.”

“Oh.”

Miriam takes a large mouthful of tea, too much to swallow at once. She looks like she is gargling. Thunderous gulps inside her head.
The storm is always close. Don’t forget your umbrella
.

“I just assumed.”

“I’m not scared of public spaces.”

“That’s good.”

She remembers the last time she was outside. The rain and the darkness as she ran home. The rainbow she saw through the kitchen window.

Boo waits, hoping that this conversational tap is all it will take to make Miriam’s psyche crack open like a nut. He thinks of macadamia nuts, of the plantation he worked at while travelling around Australia in his twenties, of losing his virginity (
finally! Such a relief to be rid of it, thank you Dougie thank you
) to a woman who worked for the Australian Macadamia Society. (Dougie’s parents had been expecting a boy called Douglas, and when they looked at their new baby and said that’s not our Dougie, the baby opened her eyes as if to say yes, it’s me, I’m your Dougie,
it’s me
.)

“Also, there’s no medical condition,” Miriam says.

Boo isn’t listening. He is on the other side of the world with Dougie, drinking peppermint tea while she lists the health benefits of macadamia nuts. Funny the things you remember. Funny the things you forget. He wonders what Dougie is doing now, at this very second, and whether she still dresses like a cowgirl. She used to call him Boo-Boo. As in Boo-Boo Bear.

“Are you all right?” Miriam says. She holds up a plate of malted milk biscuits.

“I’m so sorry. What were we saying?” He takes a biscuit and bites it in half.

“Nothing really,” she says, noticing the pinkness of Boo’s cheeks.

“Life is short,” he says.

“Yes.”

“People come and go and then it’s too late.”

Miriam takes another malted milk biscuit.

“So what the hell,” Boo says. He puts down his cup and brushes the crumbs from his tracksuit bottoms. “I’m just going to ask you, before it’s too late,” he says. “Before you leave the house and meet someone else.”

Someone else?

Miriam looks at the cow on the biscuit, notices its head hanging low. She puts it back on the plate.

“May I take you out for dinner one evening?” Boo asks.

The solitary tear that runs down her face is not the response he was hoping for. Miriam begins to sob. She covers her face with her hands, but not completely, and one eye peeps at him through her fingers. Boo is terrified, guilty, not sure what’s going on. He had never intended to upset her, but here she is with a dripping nose and red eyes, crying in the way that a child might cry after being left alone for too long.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, leaning forward to touch her hand. “What did I do?”

She tries to speak through the sobbing but she can’t breathe. Boo waits. He should never have been so impulsive—broken people don’t respond well to impulsiveness. He wonders whether it would be insensitive to eat a biscuit.

Finally, the tears stop. They look at each other. Boo knows that Miriam is not going to say yes. She is not going to join him for dinner. He stands up, puts his arm around her shoulders and gives her a squeeze. She buries her wet face in his tracksuit top.

“You treated me like a normal person,” she says, before filling the house with a low moan that frightens them both.