Getting Over It (34 page)

Chapter 44

W
HEN A RELATIONSHIP BREAKS
down, people always declare, “It isn’t the big things, it’s the little things.” And if the relationship in question was Marcus and Michelle’s, I wouldn’t hesitate to agree with them. But in my case, the little things were fine. My relationship with Tom breaks down because of a big thing—my endless stupidity. Following that, it’s the little things that break me down.

For instance, I open the
Observer,
read the first line of a report by a journalist who has traveled to the Arctic with a Greenpeace ship, glance at the adjacent photograph, see it is captioned, “A starving polar bear begs for food from the ship,” and burst into tears. I buy a large packet of posh crisps from the supermarket, stuff six into my mouth and think “
Hmm, these aren’t very crunchy
,” stuff three more in to make sure, think “
These crisps taste funny
,” peer into the bag and see what appears to be a large crushed cockcroach but is more likely a mass of black rotting potato. I have flashbacks all day and can’t eat my Dime bar.

And I visit my mother, and notice a folded card on the side table. It looks like an invitation to a ’70s club night so I open it and see a faded picture of a tanned man and a pretty woman laughing and feeding each other spaghetti—my parents, twenty five years ago, eating at a tacky restaurant in Portugal. The pain curdles as I realize she must have hunted for it, in a moment—an hour? a day? a week?—of loneliness. I have an image of mv mother desperately digging through boxes in the attic for this wisp of memory and—much as I try to banish it—it won’t go away.

We haven’t spoken about my father for ages. It’s as if, after months of fighting it, my mother has retreated into her pain. I know the sadness is swelling inside her like a cyst but I am scared of prodding it in case it all pours out in a hysterical rush and I’m unable to finish what I started.

“Maybe you should have another supper party,” suggests Lizzy. “It might cheer her up.” I sigh, remembering the first supper party—held for my mother during my social worker phase and attended on pain of death by Lizzy, Tina, and Luke. All had gone well until Luke had decided to hide Lizzy’s cheesecake in her bag “as a joke.”

I say, “Liz, my mother will be cheered up for five minutes, then she’ll go home and feel even worse. And also, I don’t have any friends left apart from you. And I’ve only got two chairs.” Lizzy retorts, “People can sit on your floor, on cushions!” I say quickly, “That wouldn’t work—I’m a one cushion household.” Lizzy perseveres, “You, and me, and Tina, and Luke, and, er, your mother, it would be lovely!”

“It would be awful,” I say.

“It worked as a one-off because everyone knew they’d never have to do it again. It would be like, oh, I don’t know, like trying to re-create the Beatles.” Lizzy doesn’t see the connection and says so. I ignore her and say, “So would Brian be forced to attend this torture evening or is he excused by his doctor?” Lizzy pouts. “We’re no longer an item,” she says breezily. “I ended it.”

“What!” I shout. “Why? Why haven’t you told me? How dare you! Not tell me, I mean.” Lizzy explains that closure was only reached yesterday and she was going to tell me but we’d been talking about Tina and Luke, and me and Tom. “You and Tom.” Me and Tom. Even being in the same sentence as him makes my blood rush. How sad is that? I sigh and demand an explanation.

“Was it something Brian did?” I ask.

“Sort of,” says Lizzy.

“Something offensive?” I suggest.

“Kind of,” says Lizzy.

“Offensive to you personally?” I inquire.

“Yes,” says Lizzy.

“Repellent?” I bark.

“Awfully,” says Lizzy.

“Something his own mother would be ashamed of?” I say, squirming with pleasurable distaste.

“Definitely,” says Lizzy.

“Jesus!” I say, my mind overrun with wild scenes of tai chi orgies and punch-ups in The Gap over a last pair of dungarees. “What on earth did he do?” Lizzy pauses. “You’ll think I overreacted,” she says hesitantly. “No I won’t,” I say. “Yes you will,” insists Lizzy. “Elizabeth!” I squeak, “Look at me! I’m in an agony of not knowing! End it! Just say!”

I feel beads of sweat on my upper lip. I hate it when people dangle a pearl of self-disclosure in front of your nose, then whip it away on the specious grounds that you’ll judge them. “Okay,” says Lizzy reluctantly, “but only if you—”

“I promise!” I screech. I clasp my hands as if in prayer and fake an innocent expression. Lizzy falls for it and reveals that she dumped Brian—kind, generous, gentle Brian who buys her figs and kisses her hand—because she was irritated by the sound of him eating. And I thought I was shallow.

Once I would have been comforted by Lizzy’s revelation. I’ll live in solitude and die alone, but yippee, at least I’ll have backup. But the news doesn’t even dent my misery. If anything, I feel sorry for Brian. The punishment seems disproportionate to the crime. “Couldn’t you have asked him to chew more quietly?” I say. Lizzy huffs and says crossly, “There was more to it than that.” I can’t resist. “What?” I say. “The way he swallowed,” says Lizzy. I give up.

Later though, at home, I try to fathom the peculiar workings of Lizzy’s mind. “You see, Helen,” I say aloud to the silent room, “she wouldn’t mind this. She’d love it. She prizes her own company.” It’s only when I say the words that I realize. I don’t mind it either. After listening to the excruciating mind warp of Lizzy’s rationale, the stillness of my own company is a relief.

I put on a kd lang CD and spend the remainder of the evening erasing every trace of Jasper from the flat (flecks of shaving foam on the bathroom mirror, two copies of
Country Life
by the toilet, three yellow toenail cuttings on the living room floor, and—from the kitchen cupboard—an Oxford University mug bought from a gift shop off Leicester Square.) By 11
P.M.
, I feel better than I did. I realize that if I can’t have Tom I don’t want anyone, just me. For a second I consider unplugging the phone as a symbol of my new independence. Then I think, don’t be mad. I go to bed early and read
C Is for Corpse.

The next day I ring my mother and invite her round for coffee. “You don’t need me now you’ve got your flat done,” are her first words. “Now, Mummy, you know that can’t be true,” I say sternly. “Or why would I be inviting you over?” There is a sullen silence before she replies, “I don’t know. You want some more chairs?” Her obstinance should frustrate me but it doesn’t because I guess that right now, she needs to do this. And our honeymoon was bound to end sometime. Not that I plan to nurture the return to dysfunctionality. I say in a gratingly jolly tone, “Actually, I invited you purely for the pleasure of your company, but I’d hate it if you felt you had to come—”

“I’ll be round at five,” snaps my mother.

She shows up, ready for battle. I knew it wouldn’t last. I offer her coffee (“only if it’s decaf”—it isn’t) I offer her tea (“only if it’s Earl Grey”—it isn’t) I offer her water (“only if it’s mineral”—it isn’t). Then I realize that tap water contains minerals so I shout “Okay!” and pour her a glass. When I present it she sniffs it suspiciously and gives it a small push away from her. “Aren’t you going to offer me anything to eat?” she says. “Yes of course,” I say in an injured tone, trying to recall if I ate that Dime bar or if it’s still in my bag. “Hang on a sec.”

I rush to the bedroom, tip the bag’s contents onto the floor, and snatch the Dime bar from the smoking heap. I unwrap it (it looks nicer) arrange it centrally on my best plate (the best of two) and present it with a flourish. She inspects it from a distance, craning her neck slightly but otherwise not moving a muscle—precisely the way in which Fatboy inspects supermarket own brand cat food. I say briskly, “This is a very superior confectionary, it—” She rudely interrupts with, “It’s a Dime bar.” My discomfited expression makes her smile for the first time and she adds gruffly, “Bernadette Dickenson always has one for lunch. She’s got twelve fillings.”

I take this friendly snippet of information as a peace offering and say, “You don’t sound very happy, Mum.” She reacts as if I’ve just sworn. “Happy!” she spits. “Happy! No I am not happy! I am extremely
un
-happy. My husband’s dead as a doornail! How can I be happy? I’m a widow! My whole life’s unraveled!” I wince and mutter, “Sorry, bad choice of word.” My mother glares. Then she blurts, “It was your father’s birthday and you didn’t call me!” I blurt, “So why didn’t you call me?” I feel myself tensing.

My mother folds her arms and bawls, “You can’t criticize me, I’m too upset!” I grit my teeth and say, “I tried you, twice, and you were engaged both times. I thought if you wanted to speak to me you’d call. You know, like a grown-up?” My mother gasps as if I’ve slapped her. Immediately, I feel bad. I say gently, “I’m sorry, Mum. I didn’t want to upset you more than you were already upset. I know high-days and holidays are tough.” She replies wearily, “It’s not the high-days and holidays. It’s the everyday.”

“Oh, Mum,” I say sadly. I lean across and touch her arm. She covers her eyes with both hands and weeps into them. I grimace, and wait. After approximately six minutes (an age in weeping terms) the weeping halts. She tells me she spent three hours on the Internet eavesdropping on a chat room for the bereaved. “Oh,” I say warily. “And it didn’t make you feel better?” My mother shakes her head like a dog emerging from a pond. “It was terrible!” she cries. “Everyone’d been shot!” Ah. “They’d all had worse deaths than me!” she exclaims. “Much, much worse! I felt like a fraud! And then, the Christian said look to God and they all started rowing with her!” I feel it’s advisable to move on, fast.

“Mum,” I say, searching for a grain of wisdom and, in my haste, finding a platitude, “grief is a private, internal thing. No one can say their pain is worse than yours because they don’t know. So maybe it’s not good to compare. Maybe it’s better to talk to people who know you. You can always talk to me,” My mother squeezes my hand silently, and nods and sniffs. Then she splutter-laughs through her tears and says, “The only person I liked was Emma from Kansas. Her teenage daughter died in a farm accident and they had an open coffin, and one of their friends looked in and said to Emma, ‘She looks good though… !’ It was like when Harold Reel’s mother told me I should be relieved because divorce was worse.” I laugh in shock and exclaim, “For Christ’s sake!” Then we laugh together at the senselessness of some people.

And we start talking about Dad. My mother tells me about their first date. He took her to a French restaurant where they ate snails and got food poisoning. “It wiped me out for a week! I was living in my tiny first flat at the time and my mother insisted I move back home. Your father had to take me on three more dates to make up for it!” she cries, flushed at the memory. “Of course, my mother didn’t believe it was the food! She thought I had morning sickness. My own mother thought I was fast! She didn’t say so to me of course, but I crept to the banister and heard her whispering to my father. Morrie used to say my mother had a whisper that could shatter eardrums! Oh, he made me laugh. Although”—she frowns, almost to herself, and I can tell she’s immersed in her own little world—“I never could get him to put his teacup in the sink. Never! And god forbid I should speak to him when there was golf on television, ‘You don’t need to hear golf, do you?’ I’d say!”

My mother chuckles and I pitch in with, “Mum, he wouldn’t speak to us when anything was on TV. He was worse than Nana! Remember when he took time off to watch Wimbledon and I ran in to show him a mug I’d made in pottery—what was I? Eight?—I ran in front of the TV and he missed a match point and scowled at my mug and said, ‘That’s sod-all use, it’s the shape of a pine cone! How are you going to drink from it?’ I threw it on the floor and ran upstairs!”

My mother tilts her head. “I don’t remember that,” she says. She pats my hand and says softly, “Don’t take it personally, darling. He could be very rude sometimes. I told him off for it. Like when he told Vivienne her mink coat stank.” She sighs. “Oh, Helen, I miss him. The ache. It’s always there. You understand. Some days it fades and then, I’ll see his spectacle case in a drawer, and it’ll be back with a vengeance.” I nod dumbly. What else can I do?

My mother sighs again. “Oh, well,” she says, snapping a large corner off the Dime bar, “that’s the price you pay for love.”

I think about what she’s said long after she leaves. (Vivienne is due round for advice on which dress to wear for her son Jeremy’s latest premiere. “I don’t know why,” grumbles my mother. “They’re all red and sequinned.”)

I feel I’m paying the price for love despite it bolting back to the shop before I could get any use out of it.

Chapter 45

M
Y MOTHER DIDN’T SET OUT
to be a bad parent, she just didn’t know any better. Her support has been erratic, to say the least. When I was eleven she made a big deal about taking an afternoon off work to watch me compete in a school swimming race. She attended, and I came third. Out of four contestants. “I was sure you were going to win,” she said, as I slumped, sodden and defeated, in the car home. I brightened at this show of faith, until she added, “The others looked so scrawny. What a shame you did so badly!”

Wary after more than two decades of this, I hesitate to tell her about Tom. I’m too delicate to cope with her booby-trapped reassurances. However, when I give in and confess, my mother is surprisingly optimistic. “He’ll come crawling back!” she says. “They all do eventually!” She suggests we go shopping instead. “You could do with wearing brighter clothes,” she says. “No wonder you’re such a mope.” While we are closer, her ability to riccochet from gushing to crushing never fails to astound me.

When I’m not being insulted by relatives, I sulk indoors. I have added a lamp to my living room and rude magnets to the fridge, and the flat feels warmer and more mine every day. I like to be in it. And I get every chance to be in it because I don’t feel much like partying. If I do see my friends, we meet in the day. (They don’t feel much like partying either.)

Talking of which, yesterday I saw Tina. She returned to work and while she looked fragile and on edge, the first thing she said when I bounded over was “All right, you big tart!” I beamed and replied joyfully, “Hello, slag!” Then we hugged. It was a blissful cross between Romford and New Jersey.

Later on we snuck out for a coffee and Tina said she was feeling stronger. “I take it Luke’s still cooking for you, then,” I said teasingly, looking at her gaunt face. To my surprise, Tina said fervently, “That man is a gem. Everyone’s been great, especially you. And the police were good. They gave me pamphlets. I’ll never forget what you did, Helen. I, god knows, I needed the push. I—ugh—even to talk about it. I can’t. It’s too raw. Maybe later.

“But Luke. I don’t know what I’d have done without him. He’s been solid. Because this hasn’t been easy, Helen. It’s frightening, being out in the world again. It sounds mad but I felt safe with Adrian. And I, I haven’t heard from him but I’m scared I will. I’m almost resigned to it. Sometimes I think, I’ve survived this many beatings, what’s one more? But Luke says I won’t see Adrian again. He’s confident of that. I half believe him. I should feel happy, but I’m not sure how I feel. It’s like there’s a void where the feeling should be. I might feel different when the case is over. But I don’t know if I could have stuck it without Luke. I can’t tell you. Every woman deserves a Luke.”

Humbled, I said, “No, Tina, you deserve a Luke.” Not wishing to sound soft I added, “A Luke with good hygiene and some vestige of dress sense.” But Tina said quietly, “He’s cool.” Instantly, I felt mean. Trying to sound joky—but wishing to procure serious information—I croaked, “Oh! So it’s like that is it?”

Although Tina insisted that it wasn’t like that and that she planned to remain single for a long while, I knew it was only a matter of time before it
was
like that. And this morning, as I hunch over my marmalade on toast I think, why can’t it be like that for me? I would say I’m always the bridesmaid, never the bride, but I’ve never even been a bridesmaid. How dare bridesmaids complain! They don’t know how lucky they are in their puffy lilac.

As I brood on the ungratefulness of some people, I hear a thud. Yet another crippling bill. I stomp downstairs to be financially damaged and see a large white envelope lying on the floor. I snatch it up, rip it open, and inspect its contents. A scrawled note:
Darling, look what I found!
And a faded birthday card. The illustration is of a baby penguin wearing a woolly hat and scarf and carrying a flower (as they do.) The message reads,
For You Daddy On Your Birthday.
I open it and my eyes prickle. “To dear Daddy,” a little girl has written in her neatest handwriting. “With lots of love and kissis and hugs and best wishis lots of love forom Helen xxxxxxx oooooooo.”

I wait till 9:32 then ring Laetitia. “Hello?” I whisper, forcing out a weak cough. “Laetitia, it’s Helen, I’ve got a cracking headache and [choke] I feel sick [sniff], I’m going to [snuffle] have to drag myself to the doctor. I feel terrible.” I await the fearsome cry of “Don’t lie to me, you skiver, get in here this minute or you’re out on your sodding ear!” But Laetitia merely says, “Don’t come in until it’s officially not contagious.” I agree, plonk down the receiver and crow, “And the Academy Award for Best Actress goes to Miss Helen Bradshaw! For a staggering performance! Ta daaaaa!” Then I pack what I need, grab my metal bin from the bathroom, jump in the Toyota, and speed to the cemetery.

I’d forgotten how quiet it is. Quiet except for the insolent drone of aircraft every five minutes. It’s less windy than on the day of my father’s funeral, but the sky is gray, not blue. I survey the desolate landscape of white stones and sigh. Who would have thought it. I hope no one sees me carrying this bin. Or wearing trousers. I glance around, then crouch and read the inscription on an ancient-looking headstone. T
HY
W
ILL
B
E
D
ONE
. I suppose that’s called resigning yourself to someone else’s fate.

I walk around, hugging the bin and peering at stranger’s graves. I frown at, N
OT
L
OST BUT
G
ONE
B
EFORE
. Bloody optimists. I decide that, W
ATCH
,
FOR
Y
E
K
NOW
N
OT
W
HEN
Y
OUR
L
ORD
D
OTH
C
OME
, is spiteful scaremongering. And it hurts me to read the inscription for Joey Steadman, aged twenty-two.

T
O THE
W
ORLD
H
E
W
AS
O
NLY A
P
ART
.

T
O
U
S
H
E
W
AS
A
LL THE
W
ORLD
.

It’s a long while before I approach my father’s grave.

Finally, I stand and stare at the name. M
AURICE
B
RADSHAW
, etched in granite. And my first thought is
What the fuck is my father’s name doing in this graveyard!
I stare at Maurice Bradshaw for a long time, and scowl. Slowly I reach out and touch the cold stone. I trace my finger along each solemn letter. Maurice Bradshaw. His row is nearly filled up, with people who have died since. But the grave itself looks stark. I stare some more and see a dandelion struggling to survive in the soil. “He hates yellow,” I murmur. Something about being here immobilizes me. I feel I could stand here staring until dark.

I stare and stare. Then I kneel on the ground next to my father’s grave, rummage through my bag for my notepad and my pen, and start scribbling. Pebbles dig in to my knees through my trousers, but I don’t mind. I like feeling the sharpness. When I’ve finished, my trousers are wet with mud and my knees hurt. I brush myself off—which smears the mud—and read what I’ve written.

Dear Dad,

I hope you’re well.

I’m not. I miss you and it has been awful. I wish that it had been different. Of course, the family have been no help at all. I hate cousin Stephen. He has disgraced himself. He was so greedy at the will reading that Nana had to tell him to shut up. He had egg mayonnaise at the corner of his mouth, it was disgusting. No one can see beyond themselves to a bit of compassion and decency. Nana Flo hasn’t heard from Great-aunt Molly for ages. But we’ve tried with Nana, and I think she’s a bit better. She’s a strong woman. Mummy is slightly less strong but I think you’d be proud of her (apart from the wrist business). She was brilliant when I moved into my flat. You’ll be pleased to hear it’s in a good location.

I lost confidence when you died. I didn’t know who I was, suddenly. What to do. And if you must know, I don’t feel too good at the moment. Maybe your death YOUR DEATH YOUR DEATH YOUR DEATH YOU ARE DEAD YOU ARE DEAD I CAN’T BELIEVE IT WHY CAN’T YOU COME BACK WHY WHY WHY WHY NEARLY A YEAR AND STILL NOT BETTER. Not many people. understand. They decide how I feel, should feel, ought to feel, in relation to how bad Mum feels… I’m twenty-nine years younger than her, therefore subtract grief to the power of two, add one for… I don’t mean to complain. They mean well. It’s useless trying to convince them it isn’t like that. Like trying to convince Nana that gay people aren’t doing it to spite their parents. But Mum and I are getting on better, which is good.

I wish we’d got on, Dad. I was hurt that you called me the Grinch. I tried hard with you, Dad. I loved you. I wanted you to love me back. If you don’t mind me saying, it was like trying to force the Toyota up a steep hill. I meant to say I love you at the hospital, and I was saying it inside. I hope dying wasn’t too bad, leaving us and sinking alone in to the dark. I hope you play golf with Grandpa and get to know him. It must be nice for you both to meet at last.

I have wondered what I did to make you not care but now I see you did, in your way. Mum says you were rude in general so it’s good to know it wasn’t all me. No offense, but not all men are like you. Some try harder. Which makes me feel better about things.

Anyway, I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but it was time. I still love you. And I feel better now. With lots of love and kissis and hugs and best wishis lots of love forom Helen

xxxxxxx oooooooo

(Remember!?)

I sigh deeply and fold the letter. Then I turn to my death-kit. I open the gray paper sack and place the letter inside. I also put in the paper Mercedes (to ferry Dad to a heavenly golf club) the gold and silver watch with “Rolex” printed on its face (he likes to be on time) the Chinese gold leaf, and the Bank of Hell notes (to buy a drink at the bar). And the five ripped-out end pages of
Single & Single
by John le Carré (he hadn’t finished it). I stick in the glasses, the pen, and the cigarettes. Then I write my father’s name on the sack, make a note of the date on a Post-it note and attach that too. Then I seal it.

I glance around to see if anyone is watching, but the place is deserted. Furtively, I light the three joss sticks—I crouch behind the headstone for shelter—and think “
Dad, Dad, Dad
.” Then I realize, shit, I could be summoning anyone’s dad, so I quickly amend it to Maurice Bradshaw, Helen’s dad, Maurice Bradshaw, Helen’s dad. After five fragrant minutes, I poke the joss sticks into the ground and light the red candle. “Okay, Dad,” I whisper, feeling only slightly silly. “I’m sending you cash, fags, and a Merc, because I know that’s what you’ll appreciate, even if it isn’t very zen. I’ve also sent you a John le Carré but please read my letter first. Okay, now I’m sending it.”

I jam the red candle in the earth, right behind the headstone so it doesn’t blow out. Then I wonder, do I torch the lot like a pyromaniac or do I play the control freak and burn it item by item? I might as well be organized. I owe it to that stupid list. I tip everything out on to the ground. Then I set fire to the sack first, so that all I send has transport. I fold the Chinese money in the way that Lizzy showed me, plop it in the steel bin, and strike a match.

The money burns and curls, orange cinders squirming over it like bugs, devouring the paper until it is dust. I stare, bewitched. The smell is sweet, heady, almost sickly. I am nervous that the smoke will alert the grave keepers (or whatever they’re called) and keep peering over the headstone to see if any officials are thundering toward me shaking their fists. They aren’t. Then I light the Hell notes. I watch and wait until they crumble to ash before lighting the cigarettes (I hope they’re not stubs on arrival). Then I light the pen, the watch, the glasses, as I don’t want a fire raging out of control. My father would be mortified. Then it’s the turn of the Merc, which takes about three hours—not what I’d expect from a fast car. Then John le Carré. And finally, my letter.

“I’m shutting the door after the hearse has bolted,” I joke to the whispery air. My eyes water from the smoke and other things and I wipe them with the back of my hand, before realizing it’s filthy. Then I glance down and see that so is the rest of me. I look like a charred potato. My face is hot and itchy from crouching over the bin, my throat stings, and my knees are damp and frozen. But I don’t care.

My heart races as I watch the cinders fly.