A Song for Issy Bradley (4 page)

“That woman,” Mum said in the car on the way home.

“Claire.”

“You let her say all those awful–”

“It’s
her
calling, not yours.”

“You
asked her to do it. You’re the Bishop,
you
called her.”

“The Lord called her, through inspiration.”

Mum muttered something that sounded like desperation, but Dad ignored her.

“Did you enjoy tonight, Zipporah? I did. It reminded me of being young and meeting your mum. She was a catch, you know.” When Dad stopped the car at the traffic light, he let go of the gearshift and grabbed Mum’s thigh.

“Catch of the century,” he said and squeezed, then he leaned in and kissed Mum’s cheek just before the light changed.

Zippy pushes the blankets down and frees her arms. Adam is only seventeen, so it’s too early to catch him. He can’t go on his mission until he’s finished his A levels. He’ll be away for two whole years, but she’ll write to him every week to make sure he doesn’t forget her. She pictures him as a missionary, riding a bike; knocking on people’s doors and teaching them about the only true and living Church; converting them to the gospel; standing in the waist-deep water of the font to baptize them—dozens and dozens of them. When he comes home she’ll meet him at the airport or the train station, depending on where he’s been. She pictures the reunion sometimes at night before she goes to sleep. She will wear something sexy but modest, and she’ll look irresistible, in a good way, in a way that makes him want to marry her. She imagines getting married, and then … that’s where she’s supposed to stop imagining, but it’s difficult; it’s hard to focus on eternal marriage without ever thinking about sex.

She sits up in bed and swings her legs around. The sole of one
foot touches the smooth surface of the prayer rock that she leaves on the floor. She made it at Youth Night while the boys played basketball in the hall. Her rock is gray, more of a large pebble, really. She painted “PRAYER” on it and then she asked if she could go and join the boys—she’d been hoping that Adam might be shooting baskets with his shirt off again—but Sister Campbell said no. So she had to wait while the other girls painted hearts and flowers on their rocks and copied out the accompanying poem in careful, neat writing. The poem is folded up in her bedside drawer. She fishes it out from under a pile of underwear and socks. Her handwriting is hurried but not untidy. She crossed out the last line of the poem and wrote a better one when she realized she wasn’t going to be allowed to play basketball. Sister Campbell was irritated. “You’re making light of sacred things,” she said, not realizing that you can make jokes about things and still take them seriously.

Zippy kneels down beside the bed, closes her eyes, and folds her arms. She prays for Dad and Mum and she prays for Issy, Jacob,
and Alma. She prays for Nana and Granddad on their mission in Ireland, she prays for kindness, and she prays for Adam. When she has finished, she stays kneeling next to the bed and listens carefully. If you’re not listening when Heavenly Father answers your prayers it will seem like He isn’t there, and you’ll have only yourself to blame. She listens past the sounds of her brain’s workings, ignores the apparatus of her imagination, and keeps things blank and ready for answers.

I
SSY IS PRICKLED
by squalls of shivers and spiked by goose bumps. She curls up like Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle, tries to shrink the aches by making herself small. Even though her breath is puffing quickly, it isn’t blowing her tummy back up. There are clouds in her head and she can’t think through them.

The shopping cart has a wonky wheel, but Claire doesn’t have time to swap it. She hefts it up and down the aisles using her hands and the corner of one hip, briefly pausing to grab stuff, not even trying to keep a running total in her head. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She’d planned to keep this slice of Saturday all to herself, to leave the children with Ian for an hour and amble—let him settle their disputes, supervise their homework, sweep the floors, and blow up balloons for the party. She knew she wasn’t going to get what she wanted the instant the telephone rang and Sister Anderson’s sugary voice asked for Bishop Bradley. She had no choice but to wake him—he has to be available to everyone, at all times of the day and night. She did say it was Jacob’s birthday, though, which won’t please Ian if he finds out; she isn’t supposed to make people feel guilty for needing help, she’s supposed to make a willing sacrifice.

It’s sad that Brother Anderson has cancer and she is very sorry for him, but his prognosis is good, and Ian has already given him two priesthood blessings, both of which promised a full recovery. Ian should spend today with his family. That’s what families do, isn’t it? She has seen them at the children’s friends’ birthday parties, whole families—grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins—celebrating together, and she has felt envious and perturbed, and somehow in the wrong because the Church is all about families, even though there won’t be any extended family at Jacob’s party. If
her mother were alive … if Ian’s parents weren’t missionaries in Ireland … but everyone will be together in Eternity and that’s what matters, not the fact that Ian missed Jacob’s birthday breakfast to go to the Andersons, or that later, during the party, he’ll be at a meeting.

Claire lifts bags of sausage rolls and chicken nuggets out of freezers and adds them to the cart, where they sit with the cheap lemonade, cookies, potato chips, and bread. All of the packaging is white—you have to pay extra for color or the plastic windows that allow you to see exactly what you’re buying. Jacob is expecting party bags, but she decides to save money by buying a roll of sandwich sacks. She isn’t sure what else to buy because she doesn’t know much about other people’s children. They are mysterious and intimidating; they ask awkward questions and keep their eyes open during mealtime prayers, they make cheeky comments about the picture of Jesus in the hall, and sometimes they swear. She quietly discourages friendships with nonmembers—it makes things simpler, easier—but the children sometimes have other ideas. Jacob was desperate for a party. He begged and pleaded, attacked her prevarications, pestered and whined until she provisionally gave in:

“As long as your dad’s home, you can have a party. I’m not doing it by myself. And we’ll have it early, from eleven ’til one, to get it over with.”

She puts a multipack of party poppers and a bag of miniature rubber balls in the cart. She usually enjoys the supermarket. She isn’t accountable to anyone here. She can wander from aisle to aisle, choosing, deciding. Here she is never wrong, always in charge, and the sound system often plays music that reminds her of her teens, allowing her to retreat into daydreams of long, post-exam summers, lazing beside the radio with friends.

“Sister Bradley! Sister Bradley, dear.”

Claire’s shoulders stiffen. She does not want to be called “Sister Bradley” in Asda.

“Sister Bradley!”

She turns to see Sister Anderson standing in the middle of the aisle waving a roll of wrapping paper.

“Helloooo!”

“Oh, hello. I thought—”

“Yes, yes, don’t worry.” Sister Anderson puts the wrapping paper in her cart. “Bishop Bradley
was
at ours, but he isn’t there anymore. He drove Paul to the hospital for me. I’m sure he’s got another infection, but he wouldn’t go; he said I was making a big fuss about nothing.”

“Oh.”

“I knew he’d get himself checked out properly if the Bishop told him to—so kind of him to come round like that, at the drop of a hat. He talked some sense into Paul, I knew he would, and do you know what? When I told Paul to go and get in the car, Bishop said, ‘You need a break, Sister Anderson. Let me take him for you.’ Isn’t that lovely?”

“Oh, yes.”

“There aren’t many men around like him.”

“No.”

“You’re so lucky. If I was a bit younger …” Sister Anderson winks and nudges Claire with the cushioned crest of her elbow.

It’s difficult to know what to say next. Of course, Sister Anderson is only joking—she must be old enough to be Ian’s mother—but Claire can’t laugh at jokes about eternal polygamy. “He’s a keeper,” she manages.

“He certainly is. He even said he’ll wait with Paul at the hospital, which means I’ve got an hour or two all to myself to catch up with the shopping!”

“That’s nice.”

“Here.” Sister Anderson reaches into her cart. She rearranges milk, cereal, and several cupcakes before producing a birthday card. “It’s a special musical one, for Jacob. Hang on.” She pulls a pen out of her handbag, writes something on the card, and drops it in
Claire’s cart. “Two pounds,” she says, fishing in her purse. “There. You can give it to him when you get home, on his birthday, much better than having it at church tomorrow.”

Claire keeps a tight rein on her irritation as she pushes the cart to the checkout. The girl asks if she needs any bags. She does. The girl frowns and Claire starts to explain that she usually brings bags from home, but today is her son’s birthday and she’s got so much to do. She stops explaining when she realizes the girl isn’t listening.

As she maneuvers the cart through the parking lot, Claire checks the receipt. It’s hard to believe junk food and plastic toys are so expensive. She loads the groceries into the trunk and, once she’s buckled into the driver’s seat, finishes her checking. When she reaches an item near the end of the list—“Greeting card £2.99”—she imagines a swearword and is instantly disappointed with herself.

She takes the coastal road home so she can drive with the windows open and breathe the blasting salty air. The town runs parallel to the concrete sea defenses, long and thin, its back against the wall. The sea is out and the beach is bare, a seemingly endless expanse of dark, treacly sand. She would like to pull into one of the parking lots and escape for a while, walk and walk, pound against constraint and containment with the rhythm of her feet, but there isn’t time. As she turns off the road she remembers a Relief Society lesson at church about good and bad thoughts. One of the sisters held up a toilet roll and a little basket of cotton balls. Some of the balls had the word “BAD” taped to them, others had “GOOD.” The sister pushed a BAD ball into the toilet roll. “Here’s a bad thought going into your head,” she said. She held the toilet roll high, like a magician, then picked up a GOOD ball. “This is how you get rid of bad thoughts.” She stuffed the toilet roll with GOOD cotton balls until the BAD one popped out the other end.

“There we are,” she said. “Easy-peasy.”

Claire begins to sing a hymn as she reverses into the driveway—the good words should fire any rude, uncharitable thoughts from
her head. She imagines a cotton ball with “SHIT” written on it popping out of her ear, easy-peasy.

She keeps singing as she heaves shopping bags into the house,
“I believe in Christ; so come what may …”

Jacob dashes down the hall and throws his arms around her. “Mum!”

“Hey, stop it, I’ll drop the groceries! Hang on a minute, let go!” The bottom of one of the bags splits and wet, frozen packets flop onto the hall floor. She puts the groceries down and squeezes the spilled items into an unbroken bag. “Where’s Issy? She’s not still in bed, is she?”

“I went in,” Jacob says as she rearranges the food, “and I told her to get up for my birthday. But she said she’s too tired.”

“Zipporah! Alma! Can you come and help, please? Well, it’s only her second week; you were all shattered when you first started school. I’ll go and check on her in a minute. Zipporah! Alma! Come down and help with the shopping.”

Zipporah appears at the top of the stairs, pen in hand.

“I’m just doing my English.”

“You didn’t get Issy up.”

“She said she doesn’t feel well.”

“Hang on.” Claire pops back through the front door and to the open car trunk. She hooks her fingers around the handles of several grocery bags and sidles back into the house. “Does she feel hot? Go and check. Maybe she’s coming down with something. Feel her head. If she’s hot, I’ll get the Tylenol. You caught all sorts in your first term. If she’s just tired, tell her to get up anyway or she’ll miss the party.”