Karen
Dad’s music seeping in from the hallway – all that twangy cowboy crap and Mum singing along under her breath even though she claims she doesn’t like it either. She’s whisking the Yorkshire pudding mix in the big plastic jug. The smell of the beef cooking in the oven makes my stomach hurt. All my school books spread out across the kitchen table. She’ll be asking me to put them away anytime now so she can put the cutlery out for lunch.
I can’t concentrate. I’m too hungry. Stare down at the blank page and suck the end of my pencil. Lead poisoning might buy me a day off school and it’d be worth it just to get out of woodwork. My mind is a blank. I can’t remember what Mr Reynolds said about the design brief. The sketches are due in for tomorrow and I’ve got nothing. I write my name over and over. Karen Whittaker. K Whittaker. K W. If I married Simon Williams I wouldn’t have to change my initials. Claire would roll her eyes. She wouldn’t be seen dead with a boy from our year. Not even Simon. ‘He’s well fit,’ she said once, ‘but he knows it. And you should never trust a boy with longer eyelashes than you.’
If I hadn’t listened to Claire I wouldn’t be in this mess. But we were too busy laughing at Mr Reynolds. The way he talks, how he can’t pronounce his R’s at all. And Claire with that look on her face. The kind that means she’s going to get me into trouble. She got up and sneaked to the back of the classroom while he was writing on the board. Someone cleared their throat but he was clueless. She landed back in her seat just as he turned round. Chalk-dust on his chin. He looked down at the textbook, turned back and started writing again. Claire passed me something under the desk. A smooth wooden handle.
‘Careful, it’s heavy,’ she said.
I looked down. Some kind of wood file. Long and thin, the metal plate like a mega cheese grater. I rested it on my knee and she passed me another one.
‘Rasps,’ she said, ‘I dare you.’
Reynolds was saying something about design and precision, about selecting the right tools for the job. Claire whispered instructions in my ear. I hesitated. She nudged me. So I did it. I held them up – one in each hand – and tapped them against each other. They hardly made a sound. She rolled her eyes. Go on. So I pulled. One against the other, as hard as I could. Metal scraping against metal. The screech and the shudder of it. It set my teeth on edge. I could feel the vibrations in my gums. Around the class people were groaning and covering their ears. Mr Reynolds span around and his eyes were wild, his face all pink. Claire looked like all her Christmases had come at once.
‘Kawen Whittaker!’ he yelled, ‘put those down wight now,’ he took a big gulping breath, ‘you never, ever wub the wasps together!’
Claire laughed so hard she snorted.
‘Sorry, sir,’ I said, trying to look calm. I put them down on the desk.
From the back of the class someone repeated his line in a squeaky voice. All the W’s instead of R’s. He stood there for a minute, not saying anything and the bell rang for break. Chairs scraping on the tiles, bag zips and all the laughing. Someone said ‘Thank you Mr Weynolds’ in a singsong voice and Claire grabbed my hand to pull me away. We pushed out into the corridor and legged it as fast as we could, ignoring him calling me to stay behind.
‘He’s a stupid, soft get,’ Claire said when we made it out onto the yard, ‘don’t worry, he won’t do nothing.’
Someone hit me on my shoulder. I turned round to push them back but it was Simon Williams grinning at me, his white shirt unbuttoned at the neck and hanging out of his trousers on one side. He gave me the thumbs up.
‘Nice one, Karen,’ he said, ‘classic.’
There wasn’t time to say anything back. I just smiled like an idiot and he was gone. Claire elbowed me in the ribs.
‘Nice one, Karen,’ she said and my face went hot. She put on a low, husky voice. ‘Classic.’
‘Get lost.’
‘Ka-wen Whittaker, are you blushing?’
This bloody music. Better than the hymns at church, but not by much. I wish I had earplugs. The door bangs open and Dad skids into the kitchen. He shuts it behind him and leans back to keep it closed.
‘Bloody hell, May, there’s a bird walking around in the dining room.’
I sit up. The look on his face. He’s properly scared. Mum is draining vegetables in a colander over the sink. ‘Why don’t you open a window?’ she says without turning round.
‘You should see the size of it. It’s almost as big as Karen.’
‘I didn’t know ostriches were native to Lancashire.’
‘Stop joking, woman and come and do something about it!’
She turns around and her cheeks are all flushed, her hair frizzy from the steam. ‘Can you not see I’m busy here. Cooking a roast dinner’s a delicate balance and it’s not like I get any help.’
‘Come on!’ he says, ‘I’m telling you. It was staring at me with its beady little eyes.’
‘For goodness’ sake!’
I cover my mouth so he won’t catch me laughing. Push the chair back across the lino. Mum wipes her hands on a tea towel.
‘You can stay here and clear that mess off the table,’ she says with her hand on the back of my chair, then pushes past and opens the door.
I ignore her and follow them both into the hall. Dad grips my wrist with his big rough fingers and I’m about to tell him to get off but the bird is there. Black and white and bigger than I expected. Not an ostrich, but solid enough and totally out of place. It’s walking in circles on the carpet in the hallway, just stalking around, taking everything in.
‘I told you,’ he said.
‘It’s just a magpie.’
‘Well get it out.’
There’s a flash of metallic blue as it turns towards us. I laugh. Finally, something interesting happening in this bloody house. Dad lets go of my arm and stands behind me.
‘Must’ve come down the chimney,’ Mum says.
‘I don’t care where it came from. Get it out before it shits on the sofa!’
‘Arthur! Go and open the back door if you want to help.’
I can’t stop now, I’m laughing so hard no sound is coming out. My stomach hurts with it. My eyes are starting to water. I take a breath and manage to speak.
‘Good morning, Mr Magpie,’ I say and salute the bird.
Mum’s walking strangely, hunched and slow like a cowboy, like she’s squaring up, getting ready to take it on. ‘It’s the middle of the afternoon,’ she says, ‘and stop hovering behind me, you’re not helping.’
‘It’s coming for you, Dad,’ I shout, and Mum herds the bird past my legs through the doorway into the kitchen. It flaps up on top of the cereal cupboard and the sound of its wings, the size of it’s too much. A breeze from the back door cutting through the heat from the oven. Dad’s holding a chair out in front of him in self-defence. The bird settles there for a moment, unconcerned, just having a good nosy around.
‘Look at its eyes,’ he says, ‘just look.’
‘What exactly do you think it’s going to do to you?’
‘I don’t know. Nothing good. Where are your rings, May? It’ll be looking for treasure.’
And then it leaves. Just like that. Flaps down and saunters out the back door.
And everything is back to normal. The dregs of lunch. Dad tips his plate up and scrapes the last of the gravy off with a spoon. He’s already yawning. I can feel it setting in early. The Sunday night dreads. Soon he’ll be lying on the sofa for a nap and it’ll be the sound of the clock ticking in the hallway. Worse than Willy Nelson, worse than the old women at church who know the words to all the hymns and warble their way through the choruses, sliding right up to the high notes. Blank pages to fill. Clean uniform laid out on my bed. Everything in its rightful place.
Mum gets up and opens the oven to check the crumble. There’s a noise from the hall, a pause while I listen out and then it comes again. A knock on the door.
‘Who the bloody hell is that?’
‘Language, Arthur.’
‘I’ll get it.’
I leave them at the table and run through the hall. Three giant leaps. Open the door and it’s Claire standing there with her new jeans on and her hands in her pockets.
‘Glory, glory, Hallelujah.’
‘That bad is it?’ she says.
‘What do you think?’
‘Coming out then?’
‘Too right. Just give me a minute.’
I grab my coat and slip my shoes on. Look at the clock. We can go to the park and still have time to catch the Top Twenty at Claire’s after. I run back to the kitchen but before I can say anything Mum gives me the look.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’
‘Claire’s.’
‘No you’re not,’ she says, ‘not unless you’ve finished that homework.’
‘I finished it. I did it before tea.’
‘You didn’t. The page is still blank. I checked.’
I kick at the table leg. Even with my shoes on it jars my toe. I want to tell her to her face she’s a stupid cow but I swallow it down. ‘She’s going to help me with the homework. We’ll do it together.’
‘I said no, Karen. Tell her you’ll see her tomorrow then come and sit down for some pudding.’
There’s no give in her voice. I look at Dad but he just shrugs. He’s holding his spoon and waiting for her to dish him up some crumble. I want to scream. I walk back to the door. Claire rolls her eyes. No need to explain, she heard every word.
‘See you tomorrow, then,’ she says and walks off down the road. I watch her till she’s out of sight. The pockets on her bum in the shape of love hearts. Her bag banging on her hip.
Back in the kitchen they’re acting like nothing’s the matter. Mum puts a bowl in front of me but I push it away. They talk about nothing. Stupid stuff. The woman on the next street who fell and broke her hip. The fact that the milkman missed the extra pint off the order on Friday.
‘I don’t know if we’ll have enough for breakfast now,’ Mum says.
You should call the Evening Post, I think, they might change Monday’s headlines.
‘Are you not eating that?’ Dad says.
I shove the bowl over to his side of the table. I look at Mum. ‘I could’ve done my homework this morning if you hadn’t made me go to church.’
‘You could’ve done it on Saturday if you hadn’t been so busy watching rubbish on the television.’
I want to throw a pea down the front of her Sunday blouse or pull the tablecloth out from under all the plates like they do on the TV. She’s still talking but I’m not taking it in. All the plates and bowls smashing into pieces on the floor, the jug of custard tipped over into her lap.
‘You can’t blame everything on other people,’ she says, ‘sometimes you have to take responsibility for your own mistakes.’
*
I put the radio on but I can still hear them through the floor. The sound of the plates as she washes up, the cupboard doors shutting as he puts them away. I jump up and down a few times and the floor vibrates. They go quiet but no one comes up the stairs. And then their voices again. My homework’s still a blank page. This is a day of rest. Kick the book across the room and lie face down on the bed. Bury my head in the pillow, hold my breath and start to count. Like the woman who got battered to death on Corrie last year. The actress lying there pretending to be dead. Trying to look stiff and make her breathing invisible. Hold on until all the air is gone, until there’s nothing else but the need for it. They don’t understand that everything about this place is yesterday’s news.
I try to imagine what it must be like to have money. Like Claire’s sister, working on the cheese counter at Booths to save up for a trip round Europe.
‘That’s what it’s about,’ she said one night, coming into Claire’s bedroom in her long green skirt. She smelt of incense sticks. Her toenails were painted blue. ‘It isn’t about the money. You earn just enough to go and experience the world. The journey is the only thing that matters.’
‘She’s going with her boyfriend next summer,’ Claire said once she’d gone downstairs. ‘She met him at the Caribbean Club one Thursday.’ She was looking at me with her eyebrows raised, like there was a secret code and she was just waiting for me to cotton on.
‘He’s coloured,’ she whispered, leaning in.
‘Oh.’
‘I’ve seen a photo. And I’m not talking the guy-from-Hot-Chocolate-black, I’m talking black black.’
I didn’t know how I was supposed to react, but she was waiting for me to say something.
‘Wow.’
‘I know. Can you imagine? My parents are gonna go spare.’
I can hear Dad coming upstairs. He takes them two at a time. He knocks on the door but doesn’t wait for an answer. I close my eyes and go limp. He stops for a minute. He hesitates.
‘Alright, love? You awake?’
I can’t help smiling. Mum would’ve told me to sort myself out and stop being so dramatic. Too late. I’ve given it away now. I sit up.
‘What’s all that noise about then?’
I shrug.
He picks the book up off the floor and sits down next to me. He’s humming under his breath. He doesn’t even know he’s doing it.
‘Don’t you think you’d better get started?’
‘I hate woodwork. There’s no point.’
He reaches for a pencil on the bedside table. ‘What’ve you got so far?’
I just look at him. He shakes his head.
‘Karen Whittaker, you’re a bloody pain in the arse.’ He looks up to the ceiling for inspiration. ‘A bird box or a pencil tidy?’
‘Whatever’s easier to make.’
‘Don’t mention this to your mother,’ he says and starts to draw.
I sit with my legs crossed, like Claire’s sister does when she’s trying to meditate. I watch him. He’s like a little kid sometimes. He sticks his tongue out when he’s concentrating. I could shuffle nearer and put my head on his shoulder and fall asleep. He’s a big daft sod. Like Mr Reynolds. But better than Mr Reynolds. I wonder sometimes how he ended up with Mum.
He’s gone and I’m tired. There’s nothing to do. I can’t be bothered to move. Turn off the bedside light and lie down. But it’s impossible to sleep with the sound of them coming up through the ceiling. Dad laughing at something on the TV. Both of them downstairs on the sofa drinking milky teas and fighting over the footrest. No room for anyone else. The sketch is far too good. The bird box all straight and perfect on the page. I wonder if Reynolds will let me use the rasps. I can feel the weight of my school skirt, resting over the end of the covers. Voices and music all blurred and distant, like the vicar giving the sermon at church – blah, blah, blah, the sound of it going up and down and up again like a song that nobody knows. And the organist playing everything too slow even when the lyrics tell her otherwise. Oh, be swift my soul to answer him, be jubilant my feet, our God is marching on.
Now it’s the darkness and the trees. Bird boxes, all wonky with nails bashed in wrong. Simon Williams stripped down to his vest and under-kecks. He hands me a hammer and I take a swing. Before I hit anything a head pops out. I want to scream but no sound comes. It’s all trapped in my chest. And the bird is stuck. The hole is too small. Its head is black and white with beady little eyes. They shine in the darkness. It opens its beak and the noise it makes is terrible. Like metal against metal.
I’m awake. I have to turn the light on to shake the panic. The house is quiet. My heart racing. I’m desperate for a pee. I check the clock on the bedside table, listen out for a sound, something that could’ve woken me up. There’s nothing. Just the clock ticking gently. No noise from the yard. Not even next door’s cat getting into a fight. There’s no drama here but I can’t shake the fear. Like someone pressing their hand against your throat. Like the only time Dad ever really lost it, when he pushed me into the hall and held me against the porch door and his hands were so tight on my arm that they left a mark. It was years ago. I haven’t thought about it in ages. I was asking for a baby sister. I was asking and asking and Mum just wouldn’t listen. She turned away. Back towards the ironing. It was like she couldn’t even hear. I pulled on her sleeve. I told her I’d do anything. ‘Even a brother,’ I said before I’d really thought about it, ‘even a little brother.’ Dad stood up then. It was so sudden. His face was red. I’d never seen him look like that before. ‘Don’t talk about this again, do you hear me?’ he said, ‘it upsets your mother.’ I pulled away and ran upstairs and we never spoke about it again.
I try to breathe slowly. Centre myself or whatever it is Claire’s sister does. She’s probably still up. Imagine it. Thousands of people still awake, right this second, talking their way into the night, dancing in the darkness and falling in love. I need the loo but I don’t want to move. Everything is grainy, like the TV when all the programmes are finished for the night. Empty. I can’t shake this feeling. I can’t make it go away. There’s nothing here and no one to talk to. Everything that really matters in the world is happening right at this second. It’s just happening to other people, somewhere else.