A Song for Issy Bradley (15 page)

“Dear Heavenly Father. I have faith that you can resurrect the bird. This is a real prayer. It’s not like asking for a bike or something, it’s important. When you resurrect the bird, I will have even more faith. And then there can be even better miracles. In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.”

As he gets to his feet, there’s a knock at the door. Mum’s head appears, followed by her body and the vacuum cleaner.

“It’s Saturday,” she says as she moves one of the toy boxes with her foot, in search of the wall plug.
“The day we get ready for Sunday.”
She sings part of the Primary song to him, trying to get him to join in.

He doesn’t. He picks the soldiers and Issy’s book off the floor, climbs the ladder to his bunk, and waits for the scream of the vacuum cleaner. But Mum pauses for a moment.

“Would you … do you think we should … are Issy’s things
bothering
you?”

“Not really,” he fibs, his tummy clenching as he stares down at the orphaned jumble of Duplos, dolls, and ponies with bright nylon hair. If he tells the truth, Mum might throw them all away; and then Issy won’t have anything to play with when she comes back.

Mum’s voice jellies around her words as she says, “We could sort them out, if you like.”

“Don’t cry,” he says quickly.

“I wasn’t …” She wipes a hand over her face, as if to make sure.

“Good. Leave Issy’s things. It’s OK. She might want them back—”

“Jacob, I’ve told you, we won’t see her again until—”

“After she’s resurrected, she might want them back,” he explains cunningly. “Everyone gets resurrected at the end of the world. Dad said so.”

Mum lets out a big puff of air. “That’s a long way off.”

“You never know,” he says in a grown-up voice.

She chuckles at his imitation of her and switches on the machine. He watches as she pushes it back and forth, mowing the carpet. She unclips the wiggler attachment and worms it into the gap between the toy boxes. It sucks along the baseboard, uncurling and stretching like an elephant’s trunk.

Then she kneels down. And Jacob suddenly feels marooned on
the top deck of the bunk, the captain of a vessel that is rapidly approaching Niagara Falls.

“Haven’t you finished?” His question pierces the vacuum cleaner’s greedy moan like a rescue shout.

“I’m just going to do under the bed,” she calls up to him. “Goodness knows when I last did it.”

She kneels on the floor and thrusts the wiggler about as if she is trying to capsize him.

“You don’t have to do it today,” he exclaims.

There’s a sound like the clatter of homemade shakers filled with uncooked rice and pasta, and his stomach sways as the bird bones rattle up the wiggler. He wants to launch himself off the top bunk and body-slam the vacuum cleaner like a professional wrestler, but he sits still as it sucks up his hope.

“Have you got some Legos under here?” Mum starts to lie down on the floor to get a proper look under the bed.

“No,” he shouts down to her. “I think it must be some … rubbish.”

She gets up and switches the machine off.

“I’ll check for Legos when I empty it later, just to make sure.” She clips the wiggler down, unplugs the cord, and closes the door on her way out.

Jacob stays on his bunk for a bit, looking down at the room. Mum will probably forget to check the bag, which means he’s not likely to get into trouble. That’s good; it’s something to feel happy about. He tries to feel happy. He pushes his cheeks up with his fingers and lifts his face into a smile but his mouth pops open and a small sob spills out. He is disappointed to find himself so far from happy. He pulls back the duvet, lies down on his tummy, and buries his head in the pillow. A series of sobs shake out of him and rattle into the pillow, grazing the back of his throat like tiny bones.

Eventually he climbs down the ladder. With God all things are possible. God helps those who help themselves and He loves a tryer:
If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. Remembering all this about God makes Jacob feel ever-so-slightly better. He drops the stray soldiers in his toy box but he keeps hold of the book that was under the bed. It’s the story of Jack and the beanstalk. He opens it to the middle page, which is a special fold-out picture of the beanstalk, its tip hidden by clouds. He knows that “Jack and the Beanstalk” is not a miracle. It’s just a fairy tale. No one could get some magic beans. It could
never
happen: absolutely-no-way. Fairy-tale nevers are not the kind of nevers that Jacob is looking for. He is in search of nevers that can be slipped under, scaled, or tiptoed around. But even though he knows that fairy-tale nevers are impossible to bend, he wishes he had a beanstalk. He wishes Sister Anderson would bring magic beans to Primary instead of mustard seeds. He wishes he could plant the magic beans at the bottom of the garden, behind the hedge, and watch an enormous stalk twist and stretch skyward. And even though Dad says heaven is not actually in the sky, he wishes he could climb the stalk right up into the clouds and find Issy. That would be ace.

Normal people are heading to Liverpool to watch the Derby but Al, Dad, and Zippy are on a cleaning mission, bombing down the dock road toward the chapel, which must be spick-and-span before General Conference. Al doesn’t see why they should clean the chapel. It’s not as though they even live in Liverpool—they go there only for special meetings and activities that involve the whole area. There aren’t any proper cleaners, which means everyone gets to share the
blessings of service
. It would be nice to have a break from the
blessings of service
, what with Issy and everything, but Dad says he can’t ask people to clean the chapel if he doesn’t also do it himself. Cleaning is a total waste of time—at four o’clock when the first of the General Conference broadcasts is relayed, the lights will be out. Everyone will watch the prophet on the giant screen and no one will know whether there’re crumbs on the carpet or fingerprints on the glass bits of the doors.

It’s boring in the car. Dad prefers the Tabernacle Choir to Radio 5 and Zippy’s sitting in the front so there’s no one to talk to. Al’s got his iPod Shuffle with him but he’s saving it for later. He’s got only a few songs on it ’cause Dad does spot checks and deletes things that don’t meet Church standards. He even deleted a load of songs by The Killers; it didn’t make any difference when Al objected that Brandon Flowers is a member of the Church. In fact, according to Dad, it’s worse for a member of the Church to write songs about smoking and taking girls’ clothes off, as those who have received the greater light will receive greater condemnation for their sins.

“Where’s your suit jacket, Alma?”

Al locks eyes with Dad in the car mirror. It’s too late for them to turn back so he tells the truth. “I left it at home.”

“Oh, Alma.”

Dad shakes his head and pulls his disappointed face, the one with the tight dog’s-arse lips. Al looks away. Sometimes he likes to imagine he was adopted and a dead ordinary relative is searching for him: someone who likes football, someone who hasn’t thought about God since they were forced to say the Lord’s Prayer in assembly. He glances back at the mirror and can’t help picking at Dad’s disappointment.

“We’re
cleaning
the chapel, Dad. I’m not wearing my jacket to clean the chapel.”

“No one’s asking you to. You need it for later, for Conference. It’s disrespectful to listen to the prophet without your jacket.”

Al shrugs. His hoodie is scrunched up in his lap. Perhaps he’ll wear it disrespectfully while the prophet speaks. He’ll also wear it if he gets cold and if he gets a chance to sneak off. He’ll use it to cover up his white shirt and tie so people don’t think he’s a weirdo wandering around Liverpool on Derby Day in his best clothes. Mum’s money is stashed in the hoodie’s zip-up pocket. It’s been there since he borrowed it two weeks ago. He’s definitely going to put it back, but he’s waiting for the right moment. He rests his hand on the pocket and grasps the roll of notes through the material. Having the money makes him feel better. He’s not got any plans to spend it, but just knowing that he could lifts his mood and counters the ache that’s cased his stomach since Issy died.

T
HERE ARE ONLY
half a dozen cars in the church parking lot. Al recognizes Brother and Sister Campbell’s old Saab and President Carmichael’s Jag; the others must belong to people from Liverpool. He watches as Zippy examines herself in the mirror—she’s nuts if she thinks Adam has come with his dad; he’s probably playing rugby
for school. President Carmichael likes sports; he always takes the annual church Dads vs. Lads football match seriously, and he’s one of the few dads who doesn’t have to resort to leg-breaking tackles to keep up. In fact, last year President Carmichael scored a late equalizer for the Dads and when the ball hit the back of the net he removed his T-shirt and his garment top and swung them around his head while he ran the length of the sideline. Brother Stevens pumped the air and shouted, “Go, President!” in his loud American voice, but the spectating families went dead quiet. Mum was sitting on a picnic rug with Jacob and Issy; Al caught her smiling. Sister Campbell didn’t find it funny, though; she pulled her braid over her eyes, and Dad just stood in the goal at the other end of the pitch, totally bewildered, as President Carmichael sprinted toward him, half-naked and whooping wildly. People aren’t ever supposed to take their garments off unless they’re having a bath or something, but President Carmichael didn’t seem at all embarrassed at having broken the rules in front of everyone. He rolled his things back on and jogged to the center circle for the restart. He’s definitely not the kind of man who would make his son miss out on sports to clean the chapel.

As they walk into the building, Al is gutted to hear the distant drone of the vacuum cleaner. Vacuuming has to be the least crappy of all the cleaning jobs. You can vacuum with your iPod on and everyone leaves you alone to get on with it. He watches as the appliance shoots into view at the far end of the long corridor, propelled by Sister Campbell, who is launching it at the baseboards, her braid swaying like a pendulum. Brother Campbell follows, waving a duster and a bottle of window spray.

“Alma Bradley, just the man!” Brother Campbell flicks the duster like a linesman’s flag. “The men’s toilets need a good clean. Sister Campbell was all set to do it, but I thought she should be saved from such an experience!”

Al watches Sister Campbell smash the Hoover into a small gap
between several stacks of chairs. She is quite clearly not in need of being saved from anything.

“Go and have a look for some bleach in the cleaning cupboard. I’ll come and help you in a minute.” Brother Campbell waves the duster again as if to say, “Play on.”

Al looks at Dad and considers protesting. Surely it’s dangerous for kids to be in charge of bleach? Dad stares back, practically daring him to complain. They hold each other’s gaze for a moment before Al capitulates. He ties his hoodie around his waist and they head for the cleaning cupboard.

The bleach is in a huge container, much bigger than the containers in the bathroom at home. Dad reaches and passes it to him.

“Don’t get it on your clothes. I didn’t think we’d be doing this sort of cleaning; we’re not exactly dressed for it.”

“I could do something else.”

“Do what Brother Campbell says for the moment.”

Al lugs the bleach to the men’s toilets. They reek of pee and the floor is stained and wet around the urinal. He wonders if it’s always this dirty; maybe he’s noticing only because he’s got to clean it up. He puts the bleach down next to the sink. He may as well pee before he cleans. He stands farther back than he should because of the wet patch, takes aim, and squirts on target. It’s only as he’s finishing that he joins everyone else who’s stood back to avoid standing in the wet, and dribbles on the floor.

He washes his hands and waits for a moment. When Brother Campbell doesn’t appear, he steps out into the corridor where he can hear the vacuum humming in the distance, probably on the parallel corridor that runs along the other side of the hall and chapel. He unties the hoodie from his waist and slides it over his head. The back door is still open. It would take only a few seconds to sprint to the end of the corridor and outside to freedom. He’ll get in big trouble if he runs away, but what’s worse, a major telling off or cleaning the toilets?

He runs. And when he passes through the open door he keeps running. He runs through the lot at the back of the building and out onto the street. He turns right and keeps running until he reckons he’s gone far enough to safely stop. He’s barely out of breath, pleased with himself and slightly surprised at his own daring. He’s going to be in trouble, but when it comes down to it, all Dad’s got is the disappointment speech and, having heard it so many times, Al is almost immune to its particular hurt.

He decides to walk straight down Queens Drive. That way, when he’s had enough, he’ll be able to turn round and retrace his steps. He walks past houses and a school and a small row of shops: laundromat, newsagent, Bargain Booze, and a betting shop. The betting shop is packed; people are probably betting on the match. He looks through the window at several televisions and wonders whether they’ll show the footie later. He never gets to watch live football. Dad says TV extras are too expensive so Al has to settle for recording the highlights on
Match of the Day
. He’ll return to the betting shop in a bit, after kickoff, to check on the score.

He carries on down Queens Drive until he reaches a big square of grass where some lads are having a kick-about. There’s five of them, all wearing Everton shirts. A little lad with dark hair is the best player, the others are OK but he can tell they don’t play regularly, they’re probably here ’cause it’s Derby Day. He sits on a graffitied bench and watches their game.

A
L USED TO
dream of being a professional footballer but right in the pit of his stomach, in the part that’s so deep and airless a visiting canary would snuff it, he knows it’s too late. He’s missed his chance. It was only a small chance and probably wouldn’t have come to anything, but still.