A Song for Issy Bradley (25 page)

Al thinks of Mum and hopes Brother Rimmer is wrong.

“Right, then.” Brother Rimmer hefts himself to his feet. “I bet your stomach thinks your throat’s been cut. Piece of cake and a drink?”

“Yes please.”

Al watches through the garage window as Brother Rimmer shuffles along the bottom half of the garden before disappearing into the house.

He puts the sandpaper down in the bed of the handcart, rubs the
wood dust from his hands, and takes a little stroll around the garage. On the floor, next to the big plastic toolbox, is a smaller box, old and rusty, shaped like a little house with a handle on its roof. Al nudges it with his toe, then he bends and tries to flick the clasp up but it seems to be rusted shut. He tries again; this time it snaps open. He glances out the window; there’s no sign of Brother Rimmer.

Inside the box there’s an old
Ensign
from 1973. It’s a special issue, “The Church in Europe.” Al flips to the middle page and a series of profiles titled “The European Saints.” It’s weird how members of the Church call one another saints. Al is drawn to a picture of a large man in a brown tartan suit. It takes a moment for him to realize that it’s Brother Rimmer. He puts the magazine down and has a look to see what else is in the old toolbox. There’s a handkerchief with fancy initials sewn into one corner and a small, old-fashioned teddy bear with movable arms and legs. Underneath the handkerchief and the teddy bear, at the bottom of the toolbox, there’s an envelope. Al slips it out and, as it’s resealable, he opens it. Inside there’s a wad of cash. He grabs a corner of one of the notes and pulls it out. A fifty.

What is it with grown-ups and money? Does Brother Rimmer think he won’t get a chance to go to the bank before he sets off with his handcart? How can he be so dense? Anyone could break into the garage. It would be easy to smash the window and climb in.

Al slides the note back into the envelope and darts to the window. There’s still no sign of Brother Rimmer. He puts everything back in the box and closes the lid.

He’d like to think the money is a Tender Mercy. Unfortunately, it’s almost certainly a
temptation
. And although it says in the scriptures that no one will ever be tempted beyond what they can bear, he isn’t sure he can resist.

H
E WAS BRINGING
the washing in on Thursday evening when he was punched by a thump of dread. His hoodie was hanging on the line and he had no idea how it had got there.

At breakfast Dad started to say Mum had lost something:

“She can’t find … she can’t find …” and it occurred to Al that maybe Mum had gone to bed because she couldn’t find the money, a problem he could easily fix, and so he dashed upstairs, dragged the hoodie out of the bottom of his wardrobe, and chucked it on his bed as a reminder to put the money back later that evening when Dad would be out Home Teaching and there was no chance of getting caught.

And yet there it was, dangling from the washing line. He didn’t dare reach for it because one of two things was suddenly true: either Zippy had emptied the pocket, or the money was still there. He was so scared he actually prayed. He didn’t get down on his knees or anything, he just closed his eyes and whispered, “Please don’t let the money be in my pocket, Heavenly Father.” And then, sensing that a polite request might not be enough, he offered some inducements. “I’ll read the scriptures every day, for a week … I’ll be nice to Jacob … I won’t swear … I’ll try not to wind Dad up … I’ll sing the right words to the hymns: I’ll sing ‘We Are All Enlisted’ instead of ‘We Are All Conscripted’ … I’ll go upstairs and talk to Mum … I’ll do all of it,
if
the money isn’t there.”

As soon as he opened his eyes and allowed himself a proper look at the pocket, he knew. He unzipped it slowly, edging his fingers inside until they nudged the wet roll of cash. He pulled it out, slipped the red elastic band away, and tried to separate the notes. It seemed like the most sensible thing to do—if he didn’t separate them they might stick to one another and become inseparable as they dried. His fingernails were blunt and he made a little rip in one mushy corner. Perhaps if he waited until the notes were slightly drier he could peel them apart and let them dry in the air. But how would he hide them while they dried? It wasn’t as if he could pin them to the washing line. What the hell was he going to do? He wrapped the band around the money and zipped it back into the pocket. His hands were shaking and he felt sick. It was all Mum’s fault for going to bed. And Zippy’s fault for being a busybody—who’d asked her to nick his hoodie and
lump it in with the washing? He was furious with them both, but he knew someone else was also at fault: him. What if he hadn’t taken the money? Maybe missing it had been Mum’s final straw. Perhaps she’d been looking for it on Monday and that was why she was in bed when they got home from school. He imagined her opening her drawer in order to touch the money and feel its possibilities; he pictured her frantically dragging Temple garments out like a magician with a long string of handkerchiefs. She probably searched the house from top to bottom, same as the woman in the parable of the lost coin—poor Mum.

Al’s knees folded as suddenly as a Wolverhampton Wanderers defense and he ended up smack on his butt under the washing line, crying. Once he started, he couldn’t stop; it was well embarrassing when Dad came out but then Dad said he could earn some money from Brother Rimmer and, as long as he ignored the bit about putting the earnings in his mission fund, it seemed like one of those Tender Mercy things ’cause he suddenly had a way to replace any spoiled notes.

After Dad went Home Teaching, Al dragged Jacob outside to play football but Jacob found a dead wasp and scampered off into the house with it. Al stayed outside for a while, dribbling the ball up and down the garden, slaloming around the fallen apples. The exercise forced the anxiety about the money into his feet, and after he’d booted it about for a bit and given it a good kicking, he had an idea.

When he was slick with sweat and nicely tired he went back indoors and annoyed Jacob until he retreated to bed. Zippy told him off for setting a bad example. “You’re meant to be the priesthood holder while Dad’s out,” she moaned before flouncing upstairs to read soppy books. He didn’t expect her to reappear until morning and there wasn’t much chance of Mum coming down either, so he was safe.

He switched on the TV, loud enough to provide some background noise, but not so loud that he wouldn’t hear if someone came down the stairs. He sneaked along the hallway into the
kitchen, delved into the washing basket, retrieved the hoodie, and got the wet money out of its pocket. He found a spot on the kitchen countertop that wasn’t sprinkled with dead flower bits, placed the wad there and unfastened the elastic band. He’d overreacted, all was not lost; he just needed to hurry the drying process before he attempted to separate the notes again.

He opened the microwave and placed the pile of money on the turntable. He wasn’t sure how long to nuke it for. He’d seen Mum put baking potatoes and frozen chickens in there for ages. He keyed in five minutes—he reckoned it’d be plenty.

While the turntable revolved he rehearsed his plan. Once the notes were dry he’d stick them under something heavy, to press out the wrinkles. Hopefully the small tears he’d made when he first tried to pull them apart wouldn’t matter, but if there was a problem he’d replace any damaged notes with money he earned at Brother Rimmer’s and then he’d roll them up again and slip them back into Mum’s drawer.

He watched the notes revolve until he heard a little snap that sounded like the microwave popcorn Mum occasionally bought for a treat. He looked for the STOP button and he couldn’t find one, there was no bloody STOP button. The microwave carried on whirling the money round and round, practically mocking him—ner-ner ner ner-ner. When he saw something spark he grabbed the door, pulled, and it opened to reveal a small lick of flame rising from the pile of notes. He didn’t panic—he’d sat through too many boring Family Home Evening lessons on emergency preparedness—he flipped up the arm of the tap, grabbed a tea towel, soaked it, bunched it into a ball, and lobbed it on top of the money. Then he panicked.

He dashed out into the garden, kicked several of the apple trees, and shouted every swearword he knew. The lawn was littered with fallen apples, which he crushed, kicked, and chucked at the hedge, enjoying the whack as they broke through the branches and smashed into the wall behind.

Back inside he wedged the kitchen door open to get rid of the burny smell. Then he lifted the tea towel out of the microwave, rinsed it under the tap, and chucked it in the washing machine, hoping Zippy wouldn’t notice it in the morning when she loaded the machine. Finally, he had a proper look in the microwave. The money sat in a puddle of water and tiny black flakes, and when he lifted it out he could see there was a small burn hole right next to Charles Darwin’s nose that pierced almost every note.

He left the notes on the side while he wiped the water and flakes out of the microwave with thick wedges of paper towels. When he’d finished, he closed the back door and rolled the wet, burned paper into a soggy cylinder, which he fastened with the elastic band. The hoodie lay on top of the pile of clean washing. He unzipped the pocket and put the money back before tying the sleeves around his waist. On his way to his room he paused at the under-stairs cupboard, unfastening the latch to reveal shelves of canned food and backpacks stuffed with sleeping bags, camping equipment, spare clothes, and matches. He wasn’t sure if the food storage and emergency supplies were for the Second Coming or just a matter of common sense, it depended on whether he listened to Dad or Mum; either way he reckoned he was safe to help himself to a four-pack of Mars bars from the nearest backpack: It wasn’t the end of the world, but it felt like it.

Upstairs, he knelt beside his bed, folded his arms, and bowed his head. He tried to picture someone there, someone who cared about what had just happened, but he couldn’t hear past the voice in his head. It jabbered on as he chain-ate the Mars bars. It wasn’t the
“still small voice”
everyone goes on about at church; it was loud and goading, and it was saying, “You stupid, stupid twat.”

W
HAT
A
L
’
S ABOUT
to do is only swapsies, it’s not stealing, he’s not a complete shit. Mum’s money may be worthless now, but if the Second Coming ever happens and Brother Rimmer makes it
through—not likely, as it’ll probably resemble a Zombie Apocalypse—he’ll also have to get through Armageddon, and after that people won’t mind a little fire damage on their notes, will they?

Al empties the toolbox and helps himself to twelve fifty-pound notes. He considers taking a thirteenth but decides against it—that would be stealing, he’ll earn the twenty-quid difference. He unravels Mum’s cash and tries to flatten it before stuffing it into the envelope, where it curls and bunches. Never mind, once everything’s back in the box it’s impossible to tell.

When he hears Brother Rimmer’s back door close, Al nudges the toolbox back to its original position and opens the garage door. Brother Rimmer waddles through the long grass carrying a tray.

“Here, let me, I’ll take that for you.”

Brother Rimmer shuffles back to the armchair and Al puts the tray down on the floor. He passes a steaming mug and a plated slab of cake to Brother Rimmer. Then he sits down next to the tray, even though the floor’s covered in wood dust, picks up his mug, and has a sip. Ugh—Barleycup. At least the cake is chocolate and Brother Rimmer has cut big pieces.

“Have you ever done anything really brave, Alma Bradley?”

“No.” Al’s mouth makes a sticky noise when he speaks.

“Do you wish you had?”

“Not really.”

“Don’t you want to do great things?”

“I’d like to play for Liverpool.” He takes another bite of cake.

“I mean eternally significant things.”

“I dunno,” he says with his mouth full. “Not really. I just want to do normal things.”

“Have you heard of the Sweetwater River Rescue?”

Al shakes his head.

“In the 1840s three young men, a little bit older than you, carried members of the Martin Handcart Company across the Sweetwater River. It was waist-deep and there were chunks of ice floating
in it. The boys all died later as a result of their efforts, and Brigham Young said their salvation was assured by their bravery. Think of that—one brave thing and BAM! Your salvation’s assured.”

“I’ve never done anything brave.” Al licks the chocolate off his fingers. It’s not so bad, this, sitting here eating cake and listening to Brother Rimmer spout weird shit. He can think of much worse things, like cleaning urinals and watching endless hours of General Conference. “What about you?” he asks. “Have you ever done anything dead brave?”

“Not so as you’d know.” Brother Rimmer slurps his Barleycup and stares at the bare garage wall.

Al stands and brushes the crumbs off his sweat suit bottoms. He gets the sandpaper out of the handcart and starts sanding where he left off. He’d been certain that Brother Rimmer was about to tell him an amazing story of bravery. It’s hard to work out what adults are going on about sometimes.

“I was there when Andrea drowned,” Brother Rimmer says.

Al concentrates on following the grain of the wood.

“I couldn’t save her. Never been much of a swimmer.” There’s a big clink as Brother Rimmer puts his mug down on the concrete floor. “Faith is an act of tremendous bravery, Alma Bradley.”

Al stops sanding again and glances at Brother Rimmer, spilling out of the armchair—a big dollop of sadness. Al doesn’t understand faith. He isn’t sure whether faith is brave or stupid; sometimes they go together. When someone tries to rescue a dog from a frozen lake and they end up dead, it’s probably brave
and
stupid.

“I couldn’t sleep after Andrea died. I used to come out here. Used to park the car in here back then, used to have a nice garden, kept my seeds on the shelves there, and my hose. It would have been so easy. I thought about it.