Tanya van Hasselt won a 2016 Writing Magazine competition with this short story www.writers-online.co.uk
If your parents are rubbish enough to give you a crap name like Deirdre you can be sure as hell there’s no hope for you and not much for them either but it’s never been the least use telling them that since Mum only listens to what dead poets tell her and Dad only listens to what Mum tells him and so you’re stuck with it because Mum used to have a thing about this Irish poet called W. B. Yeats who wrote about someone called Deirdre which only goes to show what a twat he must have been.
Mum’s moved on since then and now she wishes you were Beatrice as she’s got like some random crush on Dante since Dad took her on a coach trip to Italy even though she’s always tutt-tutting about that old lecher Silvio Bareyourboobs (whatever) who most likely can’t get it up anyway so what’s all the fuss about a pathetic geezer pretending he still can and now she’s always going off to her class at the adult education centre to learn the Italian for The Divine Comedy which isn’t like funny at all, but about hell so much the same as life in our house I’d say shit it turned out that Dante wrote in some weird medieval version which is enough to do her head in good and proper mind you Mum never lets it go it’s like there’s a never-ending supply of poets writing about their numpty mistresses so it’s a dead cert you’ll get called a whole pisspot of names in her head before you can get away from home for good and that’s got to be soon please God.
Because you’ve landed the kind of parents who can’t clock you need to find things out for yourself rather than have them shoved at you time and time again by first Mum and then Dad and that you want to try being a different person for a change and having a tongue stud and tattoos doesn’t mean you’re going off the planet you play about in your head calling yourself Dee and wearing the kind of up for it clothes that anyone called Dee would wear like her second skin but instead of hot Dee who has all the cool boys and the uncool ones as well only they don’t count in the school hanging out for her and who gets away with blue murder though you are not sure what blue murder is you are doomed to being Diddy and looking like a terrapin seeing as you haven’t the sort of chin that sticks out properly from your neck but just goes straight up from it, sounds gross and it bloody well is as your grandmother keeps saying you take after her it’s like there isn’t much hope for you in life because just look where her jawline got her all Gran ever had was Mum after Gramps buggered off to get himself a new life and most likely a new woman in Wolverhampton and now she’s got Alzheimer’s so Mum has to even wipe her bum for her when she isn’t doing stuff for all these other people who can’t get their act together and just sit around on their arse all day thinking they can get a free ride, so what with that and wading through crap poetry which nobody in their senses would read nowadays you know quite well your mum hasn’t got a life.
They did an experiment Mum says with this group of kids who were told they could either have a marshmallow now or wait a bit and get two and all the kids who ate their marshmallows straight off ended up losers while the ones who hung on ended up what they call high achievers silly question right you know quite well you’re one of the instant marshmallow eaters the same as anyone with half a brain knows you can’t trust anything coming from anyone on high it’s obvious they don’t know what truth is and lie all the time maybe they have to and you’re obviously pre-programmed to achieve absolute zilch that is if you’ve got only half a brain and believe in these stupid experiments which are sure as hell American because they’re obsessive about shrinks so it’s like you can’t get your head around why your mum keeps repeating it seeing as she says that America is to blame for everything that’s wrong in this country and now they’ve messed up the Middle East good and proper no great surprise there replies Dad sucking his Trebor mint.
There’s Caro and Minna in your class who’ve started up a Who Can Eat Least Competition and so five girls in the year are now anorexic and spend all their time swapping weight loss tips on websites when they’re not puking down toilets that is but you know however little you eat you won’t become cool and clever enough you’re just a marshmallow gorger so it’s like you’re falling off the roof and winning the lottery when Brad asks you out because Caro and Minna say he’s a legend ten out of ten and over from America for a year staying with cousins though you don’t know why or care hey anyway just the look and the way he speaks makes you feel like flying and there’s nothing you can’t change about your marshmallow eating life.
‘We’re going for a ride’ says Brad and you know what that means because you’ve read stuff in the local freebie about joy riding on the Cranford development and Mum goes tut-tutting through the paper like she’s been mugged herself instead of living the life of Riley whoever he was in what poncey estate agents like to dress up as the sought after south end of the town yet in some weird way you want to say no you’re busy because you can’t help being posh from a snooty road and you feel kind of sorry for the people on Cranford having their lives made a misery with horns and shrieking brakes and probably getting their cats run over and they’re the sort of people who really love their cats but you know it’ll be all around the school by tomorrow that you’ve been dumped if you refuse and that would mean social suicide so of course you say ‘yeah that’d be cool’ and look casual and unconcerned but who’s conning who?
Your parents think you’re learning quotations from As You Like It with your friend Rosie all evening would you believe it and it’s kind of sad they’re really happy thinking you’re laying the foundations for a good and useful life no it isn’t it’s lucky not sad at all since it leaves you free to go on with your own life like your real life they know nothing about.
You’re in the car now and Brad’s arm is around you and you can smell the sour sweat from his armpit and neat alcohol on his breath there’s five of you in the car it’s some old Nissan the speedometer is flashing at you sixty then seventy miles an hour you’re screaming laughing madly happy unhappy how the hell do you know which?
If you had any guts you’d have got yourself out of this even faked you had your period or something for oh god what wouldn’t you give to be sitting on the sofa with Mum and Dad watching an ancient re-run Only Fools and Horses with Dad farting and snoring and saying ‘time for Bedfordshire’ when Mum goes and puts the dog out onto the mottled patch of emerald lawn at the front because then you wouldn’t be crammed into a nightmare which is scaring the shit out of you with black shapes rushing at you and lights blinding you flashing off puddles and vanishing like fireworks until roaring blackness swallows you up into nothingness.
‘Home James,’ says Dad at the end of every car journey. Only of course he’s not saying it now even though Mum’s beloved Dante says that what’s life is. Maybe it isn’t such a crap idea but describes things pretty well. She and Dad are sitting either side of the bed. They’re each holding one of your hands. You can tell Mum is crying. You’re used to this. She does it all the time, not just when she’s reading sad poetry. They talk to each other in low voices, saying things like, if only we’d known she was leading this secret life and where did we go wrong?
Mum’s been reading you poems. You’ve got quite hooked on them. She does Kubla Khan best, and you lie here thinking how shitty it is that Coleridge never got to finish it. Maybe it would be impossible to finish anyway because you’re often thought people are lousy at knowing when to give up, so it could be that endings are best snapped off without warning.
It comes to you that Dad’s like you in some ways and Mum in different ways. All right then, if they weren’t your parents you’d say they were on the way to being okay. You have plenty of time now to make connections in your head because there isn’t anything else to do being bandaged up and attached to all these wires and tubes and beeping machines, and having to hear all those voices arguing over whether to switch everything off.
You wonder why they keep going on about you never having learnt anything worthwhile and losing out on your future. Because it’s becoming dead obvious you’ve found out an amazing amount of things about what people are like underneath their covers, why they do things, and your head’s spinning with what feels like light at all these discoveries.
So despite that marshmallow reckoning which wrote you off as a loser, you could say you’ve proved what rubbish it was. Because really, when you come to think of it, and take my word for it, you’re having that good and useful life after all.
8th November 2015
This piece, by Maggie, won the Henshaw Press Short Story Competition in October 2015, and will be included in an anthology next year.
Till Death Us Do Part, by Maggie Davies
I put my arms around Neil and kissed the top of his head. His hair might be the colour of fresh snow but he was far from an old man. ‘We could die together,’ I said. ‘Fly to Switzerland. Make a holiday out of it. Then finish up at that special clinic they’ve got over there.’
‘Don’t be bloody ridiculous.’ He was cross. He’d always been short-tempered and the last few months had been a strain.
‘I’m serious, sweetheart.’ I moved to sit opposite him. ‘I couldn’t bear to go on without you.’
‘You’re insane, Beth. You’re still a young woman. In perfect health.’
‘You’re only sixty.’
‘I mean it, Neil.’ I put my hand over his. ‘If you kill yourself, I’ll throw myself under a train.’
‘Then I can’t do it, can I? I’ll have to turn into a vegetable and make both our lives a misery. Is that what you want, you silly woman?’
‘No,’ I said. That wasn’t what I wanted at all.
It started after Geoff’s wife died. Madeline had been failing for years and, living next door, we’d seen the hell they went through in her final months. Her deterioration had been particularly depressing for Neil, who’d been reading articles about dementia often being hereditary.
‘It’s like my Dad, all over again,’ he’d said, with a shudder. ‘If I ever get like that, I want you to finish me off. Take the carving knife to me. Promise?’
His father’s house smelled. The bathroom, in particular, stank. It took a while for Neil to find out why. The poor old chap knew where he was supposed to go to urinate. He’d just forgotten what to do when he got there and simply peed all over the carpet. It was humiliating for everybody. When he finally died it was a relief.
‘A meat cleaver might be more final,’ I’d said, trying to lighten his mood. ‘Though messier.’
It became a sick joke between us. Nothing serious. Then, over a few months, things changed dramatically. Neil had always mislaid keys and spectacles. I did myself, but he became incapable of finding anything. I put a china bowl on the kitchen dresser and suggested he use that as a collection point, but whenever he went there for something, it was empty.
‘I’m losing the plot, aren’t I?’ he grumbled one day, after finally locating his house keys in the drawer where we kept the electrical leads. ‘Why would I put them in there? My brain’s turning to Swiss cheese.’
‘All sixty-nine-year-olds mislay things.’ I gave him a hug. ‘Tomorrow we’ll buy you some vitamins. That might help.’
Several days later he accosted me in the greenhouse. He looked as if he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. ‘Why were my spectacles in the fridge?’
‘Whatever are you talking about?’
‘My bloody spectacles were in our refrigerator. On top of the Flora.’ He slapped the side of his head with his hand, as if to knock sense into it. ‘I’m going bloody barmy, aren’t I?’
‘Sweetheart, we all do crazy things. Remember when I started to reverse the car out of the garage? With the up-and-over door still closed?’
‘That’s true.’ He looked relieved, but not much.
However, days later, I glanced out of the kitchen window and said: ‘The bin, sweetheart. It’s Thursday. Didn’t you put it out?’
Neil glanced up from The Independent. ‘It’s okay, I did it when I got back from the newsagents. Before I raked up those dead leaves at the bottom of the garden.’
‘So where is it, then?’
He abandoned the paper and peered outside. ‘Damned if I know. I expect the bin men emptied it and stuck the thing next door by mistake.’
They hadn’t, of course. It was where it always was, behind the shed. Still full.
‘You meant to do it,’ I said when he eventually came back inside. ‘Sometimes I mean to clean the oven, but then conveniently forget. Probably because it’s a chore.’
Neil paced up and down, like an animal in a trap. ‘But it’s not just the bin, is it, Beth? I lost my electric razor yesterday, and my credit cards the day before. Then I left the bathroom tap running last night when I went to bed. I’ve no idea what I’m going to do next. It’s a nightmare.’
‘You’re preoccupied, that’s all. Though maybe you should see the doctor.’
‘I’m damned if I want to be asked if I know what day of the week it is.’
‘And what day is it?’
‘It’s Thursday. September the 25th.’
‘There you are, my love. You’re fine.’
The days dragged on until Geoff wandered in through the kitchen door one morning, as he often did, with some vegetables for us from his allotment.
‘I could do with my mower back, if that’s okay,’ he said to Neil.
‘You know, mechanical thingy that cuts grass and makes a godawful racket? That you borrowed from me at the weekend?’
Neil’s fists clenched at his sides. ‘I was planning to come over and borrow it. Tomorrow.’
‘But you’ve already got it, old man. That’s why I need it back.’ There was an awkward pause. ‘Okay,’ continued Geoff, looking embarrassed. ‘Tell you what, you hang on to it and let me have it back when it’s convenient.’
‘But I don’t have it,’ Neil protested, looking at me. ‘Do I?’
‘It’s in the garage,’ I said, avoiding his eye.
There was a silence, before Geoff slapped Neil on the shoulder in a not-very-convincing show of bonhomie. ‘Not to worry. I missed the dentist last week. He still charged me for the appointment, though. Grasping bastard.’
The incident hit Neil hard. ‘I told you I was getting like Dad,’ he said. ‘This proves it.’
I wasn’t sure what to say, so I kept silent. But I put my arms round his waist, buried my face in his scratchy sweater and gave him a big hug.
‘I’d rather be six foot under than lose my dignity,’ he murmured into my hair, sounding close to tears.
‘At least get a proper diagnosis,’ I urged. ‘What if you’re wrong?’
‘What’s the point of a diagnosis? There’s no cure, is there?’ He extracted himself from my grasp and looked me in the eye. ‘I’ve got to take matters into my own hands while I still can. I could deteriorate rapidly. That’s what scares me. Leaving it too late.’
‘Don’t leave me, Neil. Please!’
‘You’ll manage. People do. Look at old Geoff.’
‘I refuse to talk about it.’
‘But we must. Plans have to be made.’ He took my hand in his and kissed it. ‘I need you to understand,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t bear it if you didn’t.’
‘I understand perfectly,’ I said. ‘I just don’t agree.’
‘Of course you don’t. But you will support me?’
‘You mean, hand you a full bottle of pills?’
‘And get you in trouble with the law? No way. Assisted suicide’s a crime. It wouldn’t be right to involve you in anything like that. And the Swiss clinic business raises too many legal questions. But I’ve done some research on the internet. If I crash my car into that nice, solid brick wall by the railway bridge, my worries will be over before I know what’s happened. Especially if I neglect to wear my seat belt and put my foot down, on a wet night. That way, the life insurance people won’t ask awkward questions.’
‘Oh, sweetheart, you mustn’t worry about things like that. I’ve got my pension.’
‘Fat lot of good that will do you. Just think of all the money those insurance companies have had from us over the years. They owe us.’ He patted my arm. ‘You deserve some happiness after I’ve gone. I refuse to leave you hard up.’
‘Please, sweetheart,’ I begged. ‘Don’t do this. I’ll look after you, whatever happens. We promised, for better or worse.’
‘Not another word, Beth. My mind’s made up. We’ll go away somewhere for a second honeymoon. Then come back and I’ll do it.’
When the time finally came, Neil and I kissed goodbye at the door before he went out to the car. We were both crying. Then I watched him drive off at speed into the night. Losing him like this would be hard, but he was right: life would go on.
I went back inside and picked up the phone to call Geoff. It had taken us three careful months of planning to get to this.
‘Fingers crossed, we’ve finally done it, darling,’ I said, when he answered. ‘All we need do now is wait for the traffic police to come knocking on my door.’
Photograph of spectacles courtesy of Ard Hessellnk at Flickr.