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Authors: James Hannah

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I take the shape from her and turn it about in my hands. It's so comforting, the fledgling idea, the work in progress.

“Oh, wow, yeah. It's really good,” I say. “Lovely tension.” I nod at her, impressed.

“It's good, when you've got so much going on in your head, to have something for your hands to do. Something to focus on.”

It's lovely, just these few seconds, she's there, open-faced, setting her cares aside, completely immersed in what she's showing me. And for a few seconds, I'm swept there too.

“So,” I say, handing back the crochet, “how are things?”

She takes it from me and looks down at it, kind of smiling. “Yep, pretty bad.”

“Yeah?”

“I've been trying to make some preparations. Organizing whatever bits of the funeral I can, trying to get all that sorted. Quite a lot to learn and do. Dad just sort of… He can't do it.”

I find myself lowering my eyes to allow her to swallow down another spoonful of sorrow in some sort of privacy.

“It's just… I don't know,” she says. “It's really hard, not knowing how to do this stuff.”

“Yeah.”

“I try to get to sleep at night, but my mind's turning over and over. You know: what if I forget to do something, what if I forget to sign the right bit of paper, what if the coffin's wrong, what if it's not what she wants. What if the food doesn't arrive for the after party. And it's all… She's not even gone yet. I don't know when all of this is supposed to kick into action. It could be tomorrow; it could be weeks away.”

“And your dad's not…doing anything?”

She takes in a great breath and makes an effort to pull herself together.

“Sorry, sorry,” she says, and laughs. “You don't need all this.”

“No, no, don't apologize.”

She purses her mouth, does a little gulp.

I can feel my breath getting shorter. I hung up that oxygen mask too soon. It's no good. I'm going to have to take another hit. I sit myself up with difficulty.

“Sorry, can I do anything?” says Amber, standing. She makes to shift the pillows to prop me up better. “Or…should I…leave?”

I accept the mask from her, inexpertly rake the elastic over my head. I look up at her and frown, and she looks a bit shocked.

“Sorry,” I say, muted in plastic.

“No, no.”

“Looks worse than it is.”

Resigned, I adjust the mask in its place and let it settle in, settle me.

She sits once more and just waits for me to reacclimatize. Look at her, her eyes are so tired and puffy.

“I'm really sorry to see someone like you going through all this,” I say.

She raises her eyebrows. I wonder for a moment if she's going to cry, but she simply exhales and says, “Yeah. It's a bit shit. I just don't want her to be in pain anymore.”

“They won't let her be in pain. Not really.”

“That's all that matters. But…it feels so wrong…wanting it to be over.”

“No, no. Not wrong.”

She stares across the room, a lost expression in her eyes.

“I mean, she's been amazing. These last few weeks I think she's been trying to protect me from knowing how bad she was. Didn't want me to worry. It's such a selfless thought, you know?”

“Sheila told me she thought your mum was an absolutely lovely lady. Kind and uncomplaining. She really seems to like her.”

“When Mum told me the cancer had come back, she actually said sorry.” Amber breathes a quick, quiet little laugh. “I thought, how can you say sorry for something like that? But she said to me, ‘I'm sorry to mess up your studies and make you worry.' I think she liked to reduce it to a few little things she could be sorry about.”

“It's a lot to take on,” I say. “She'd want you to take such care of yourself, wouldn't she?”

Amber purses her lips again and looks down.

“I know what it's like,” I say. “Mind racing. Feeling trapped. Maybe…if you just…stick to the small stuff. Practical stuff.”

“Yeah.”

“Forget what-ifs. What-ifs aren't yours to control.”

“No, no.”

“If you sort all the practical stuff, the big stuff tends to get done too.”

“Yeah,” she says, frowning down at herself.

“What's on this afternoon's agenda?”

“I've got to sort out flowers, and what readings there are going to be, the music. I don't know what she liked. It feels like I don't know anything about her, even the smallest thing.”

She looks so lost. She's too young. She needs a dad.

She needs her mum.

“And there's nothing your dad can do to help?”

“He doesn't know anything. He didn't know her. He spent all his time off at work and… He wouldn't be any use.”

I can feel her anger simmering away, barely beneath the surface.

“Do you mind if I say something?”

“No, go on.”

“Making all the decisions, it's too much. I know it might seem easier—”

“It is.”

“But it's not.” I lift the mask from my face, hold it in my hand a moment. “I mean, say you set everything up, you have the funeral you think she wanted… What about after? You're left angry at your dad because you let him drift through it.”

Amber glares down at her little scrap of crochet, turning it around and about.

“You've got to plug him into this.”

She looks up and tautens her mouth.

“And it's not…it's not fair…to ask you to do this, but…he needs guiding through it.”

I'm sure she's listening to me.

“He's got, what, twenty-five years' worth of life with your mum?”

“Yeah.”

“Quarter of a century. That's a lot to ignore.”

“Yeah,” she says reluctantly.

“Even tiny little choices. Like, what music did he and she like? What”—another pull on the oxygen—“what were they like before you were born?”

“Yeah.” I can see her eyes mulling over the possibilities.

“Ask him: get three possible readings. Even if he says he can't. Give him a day to do it. And you can decide between you, yeah?”

“Only he won't know any readings.”

“But then he has to go and ask his friends. His friends who knew your mum. It'll be his task. You just set him off.”

“Yeah, yeah.” This seems to ease her brow a little.

“You might be surprised. It's a great…it's a great opportunity. For everyone to remember her. In ways you might not have thought of.”

• • •

“Hallo, lovey!” says Sheila, waggling a bunch of lunch cards as she breezes into my room. “Have you chosen your lunch yet?”

“Mmm, yes. Could I try a bit of the cod, please? No promises.”

“Oh, right,” she says, swiping up my card and looking it up and down. “Bit more adventurous today?”

“Yeah, something like that. I've just had Amber come to see me. We had a chat.”

“So I saw. How's she doing?”

“She's a sweet girl. So much on her plate.”

“Hasn't she? But she's got her head screwed on. A real smasher. One of the lovely things about this job, you get to see the real good in people.”

“Yeah. Sad to see her so young, though.”

Sheila bites the edge of the lunch cards. It dawns on me that she must see worse. Much, much worse. “Still,” she says, “I'm really proud of you for taking the time to try a bit of mixing. I told you it's a tonic, didn't I, meeting a few different people?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it's been nice.”

“It's good to have visitors now and again. Where are you up to on your A to Z? You'll nearly have it finished by now, I should think.”

“I'm on
G
.”


G
? Blimey, talk about taking your time. What have you got for
G
then?” she says, frowning out the window. “There's gut, groin…”

“Gonads.”

“Oh my God, it's all the rude stuff, isn't it?”

“We used to have a game at school called Gonad.”

“Oh, right?”

“You know, that age where you think every vaguely anatomical word is a swear word.”

“Little boys, they're awful for it. Terrible gigglers.”

“Yeah, well, we used to think
gonad
was this majorly sophisticated swear word, and we had this game where we had to shout it out in class. Well, someone would say it quietly, then the next person would have to say it a bit louder, and the next one even louder, you know.”

“Oh, right. So we know what kind of a little boy you were then.”

G

Gut

“I'm getting a gut,” I say, looking sadly into your bedroom mirror. “I never thought I'd get a gut.”

“You haven't got a gut.”

“I have. Look, it's there.”

“Where?”


There.

“That's a stomach.”

“It's a gut.”

“Look, I'm a nurse. I'm practically qualified. It's a stomach. You're as neurotic as your sister, do you know that?”

“No, I'm not.”

You hold up the iron and blow a dismissive cloud of steam at me, before dumping it back down on the ironing board and continuing to nose around the buttons of your uniform.

I turn and indulge myself in another look at my ugliness. I was always proud when I was a teenager to be able to hitch up my T-shirt and see—well, never quite a six-pack, but at least a pure, taut line from belt buckle to breastbone. I could suck it in and make a cave. See myself as a skeleton. Is vanity so bad? I just want to look my best and stay that way forever.

You finish with the iron and hang your uniform over the wardrobe door before taking your familiar position before the mirror.

“What's the matter?”

“I hate getting older.”

“Well, twenty-eight.” You tut. “Ten years past your prime.”

“I hate being diabetic. It makes me feel old.”

“Old's got nothing to do with it. And you're not fat.”

“It's not like I wanted to have diabetes,” I say, jiggling my love handles and then smoothing them with flat palms, as if that's going to get rid of them. “But then part of me used to think it was quite nice to have a
thing
. Is that bad?”

You do a kind of Gallic shrug with your mouth. “Everyone wants a bit of attention once in a while.”

“Yeah, but I used to play up to it really badly. I mean,
really
badly. I wouldn't eat properly, and I'd miss out on shots, even if I was feeling ropy.”

You say nothing, draw your fingertips through your hair, and glance up at me in the mirror.

“It started to feel like, the more tired I felt, the happier I was. And the thinner the better. You can get to enjoy that stuff.”

“But you're not doing that now, though, are you?” you say, turning and looking directly at me. “You're not missing shots now?”

“No.” Mostly no.

“Because I've already watched my dad destroy his life, and I don't intend to watch my boyfriend do it too.”


Look
,” I say, grabbing my gut and tugging it at you. “Does it look like it?”

“You're not fat! You're man-shaped.” You come over and lay your hands under my shirt. “I love your tummy. I love you.”

“Yeah, well.” I'm unconvinced.

“Anyway,” you say, slapping my bum and sitting down to pull on a pair of tights, “stop being so down on yourself.” You shimmy your thumbs upward to distribute the denier and snap the elastic at the waistband. “If you're getting fat anywhere, it's in your head. Why don't you go out tonight? Go do something. You haven't been out with your mates for ages.”

I dump myself down on the bed and wrinkle my nose.

“I don't fancy it.”

“Give Mal a ring. He'll be glad to see you. He thinks I'm the queen bitch from hell, so he'll be pleased I've let you off the leash for five minutes.”

“No, he doesn't.”

“He does, because you haven't been in touch with him, and he thinks that's because I won't let you.”

“I don't know. It'd be nice if it was just pubbing and chatting, or going to a gig or whatever, but there's always the clubbing afterward. I can't be bothered, you know?”

You take your uniform off its hanger and begin buttoning it on.

“Oh, that reminds me: Do you want me to pick up a walker for you while I'm at work, Grandpa?”

“I
am
getting old. And fat.”

“Right, that's it. You're going out. I don't want you hanging around, just waiting for me to get home. That's not what we're about.” You pick up my phone and scroll through it. “There we go,” you say, pressing the screen.

Mal Sampson. Calling…

H

Hair

One thing that stays with me about Mum's last weeks is how simply getting her hair washed and done would make her perk up no end. So heartening to see. Now I know how she feels. Jackie sorted me out with fresh pillowcases this morning, and now my hair feels shamefully greasy in contrast. My scalp's itchy, and I'm sure I must be leaving a stain on the starchy linen. I can't remember the last time I gave it a proper wash with shampoo. But I can't just ask for a hairdresser to come in and do it, can I? I'd feel like one of the old ladies.

My whole life I've been trying to avoid having embarrassing hair. I always thought I could avoid being like those old pictures of my dad from before I was born where he had the 'stache and the sideburns with tinted thick-framed glasses and his receding hairline. I would honestly think to myself: How could anyone ever get caught out like that? I would never, ever make that mistake.

And there have been moments in my life when, if I say so myself, I have got it absolutely right. I remember a time, sitting in the car on the way to school, looking in the rearview mirror, and I'd got my curtain hairdo absolutely perfect—it was exactly the right length, with precisely the right curve to the curtains, just clean enough, but not so clean as to be fluffy, with maybe a couple of artfully stray strands of hair breaking the line to say, Hey, I didn't have to work too hard at this. It was one of the few occasions I've prayed in the utmost seriousness to God:
Please, please let this perfect hairstyle be perfect forever so Helen Worthington will have no choice but to love me for eternity.

There it is again: all I've ever wanted to do is just look my best and stay that way forever. If God existed, I'd be a forty-year-old man with a fourteen-year-old's hairstyle.

And then there was Mal. Mal, of course, the new kid at school, fresh blood, fresh meat, fresh hair. Long on top and shaved underneath at the time. I thought it was the coolest thing I'd seen. So I started growing out my curtains almost straightaway.

I vaguely knew even then it was kind of a crushy thing to do. But it happens all the time, doesn't it? Every generation of young lads herds through the same town-center streets, aping each other's hairdos, just like my dad did, I suppose.

• • •

I'm sitting on the floor of Laura's apartment, watching Mal play the PlayStation in his dressing gown, and my head is being licked coldly sideways by Laura's rhythmical brushstrokes.

I can't believe I'm going ahead and dyeing my hair. This isn't me. This isn't the sort of thing I do. It's sort of brilliant, sort of scary. God, I'm such a child, even at twenty-two. Such a child.

Mal's sitting there with his hair already brushed and cooking.

“Hold still, for God's sake,” says Laura.

“It hurts.”

“Oh, give it a rest,” she says. “This is what women have to put up with all the time. Hold
still
. It's supposed to be even all over.”

“Have you ever done this before?” I ask Mal, trying to keep the fizz out of my voice. “Does it ever go wrong?”

“How wrong can it go? If you think of some of the kids at school who used to do it.”

I'm a bit pissed.

Is Mal pissed? Sitting there in front of the TV, game controller in hand, he doesn't seem pissed. He doesn't seem bothered at all.

Laura's definitely completely pissed. But she's the only one who knows how to do this, so hopefully she'll keep it together. The front room now stinks of the bleach or ammonia or whatever it is she's slathered on our scalps.

“Right, that's you done,” she says, and stumbles off out of the room and into the bathroom.

I say, “I can't believe we're doing this.” As it comes out of my mouth, it feels like the sort of thing Kelvin would say. Squealingly naive.

Mal's game crashes to a conclusion, and he hands me the control.

“Ahhh, it's good. You should try anything once.”

“Dyeing hair—it's something other people do.”

“You reckon?”

“Yeah. It feels like there are too many parts of my brain saying, ‘I'm going to look like a real dick.'”

“Who cares if you do? It'll grow out in a fortnight. No one should ever worry about looking like a dick for a fortnight.”

I edge my character along a narrow ridge and hop into the go-kart for the trip down the hill.

“I'm not like that, though,” I say. “I never ever say, ‘I want to do this, so I'm going to go ahead and do it, and I don't care what anyone thinks.' You've got that; I haven't.”

“Yes you have, you moron. You absolutely have. You and me, we're pretty much the same dude,” says Mal. “We both get things done, maybe just using our different special powers.”

“I don't. I never do.”

My kart rattles over rough ground, but I'm quick enough with the joystick to get past the tricky bit that normally sends me flying.

“Yeah, man, that was one of the first things that I noticed about you, when you… You remember when Mr. Miller found that pack of my cigarettes?”

“Oh God, yeah.”

“I just could not believe you'd take the hit for that. And I thought, man, he doesn't even know me. I'd better stick around with this lad; he really doesn't give a shit, you know? He can really go there.”

“Yeah?”

“Anyone who can…fucking”—he ducks instinctively as my kart passes under the low branches—“use their dead dad just to get one over on their science teacher, well, they're someone who doesn't give a shit about what anyone thinks, aren't they? Someone who's prepared to go there. You're a Machiavellian type, I reckon.”

I've heard the words he's said, but I'm only slowly piecing them together in my mind to make sense of them.

Feels sort of…nice?…to be thought so shrewd.

My go-kart pings off the edge of the cliff and drops into the abyss.

I hand him the control. “Is your head a bit hot?”

“A bit. That's probably normal.”

“Where's Laura?”

A graphic retch and cough leaks out from the bathroom, followed by a protracted series of spits.

“I think she went for a little lie-down.”

A whole hour later, with my head stinging, she's blearily washing the bleach out, and my dreams of a platinum-blond cut like the Russian Action Man thunder into the bath with it.

Orange-yellow at the back, bright yellow at the front. And dark patches all around the back top where she hadn't brushed it in properly.

It'll grow out in a fortnight; it'll grow out in a fortnight.

• • •

Something wakes me again now. I look up from my pillow, and it's still dark. Sheila hasn't been in, I don't think.

As I concentrate on the rectangle of light beyond the foot of my bed, I can hear a low regular noise. Old Faithful's breathing has changed. Maybe they've switched her medication again. The kazoo sound is still there, but it's like she's gently huffing through it, a more thoughtful sound. A peaceful sound. I prefer it to what she was doing before.

I am lost in a world of regular hums, distant beeping, the periodic reheating of the coffee machine in the corridor, and that steady kazoo. I don't know how long it has been. Is Amber wandering around out there? No sign.

Knuckles knock-knock on wood. Rap through the static atmosphere. I glance up at my doorway, but there's no one. A moment later, I hear a murmur next door, and a murmur in response. The tones of a woman's voice, Sheila's voice, hushed, and the lower tones of a man. Mr. Old Faithful.

Slight metallic clink of a chair leg, and something knocks against the thin partition between my room and hers. It makes me start, makes my heart briefly beat a little faster. For a while there's a sense of movement out there in the corridor. Diligent attendants move to and fro, and now a nurse passes my doorway.

Sheila pads past too and glances in at me.

I've no idea whether she can see if I'm awake. Maybe she's trying to read my eyes in the darkness. See if there's a glint off an eyeball. I narrow my eyes, narrow the chances. I don't want her to see that I'm awake. I don't know why. I don't want to encroach on this. Don't want to be a witness. All I feel is the rhythmic thrum of my heartbeat between the sheets. Can she see me breathing? Sheila drops her look and moves on. Still the kazoo keeps time, though it's gained an edge of intensity.

There's a lot of pacing going on out there. No one's staying anywhere for long.

Slow figures drift past my doorway, closing in on Old Faithful.

Slow spirits.

Come to take her away.

Tender noises from next door.

Gentle huff. Pause.

Gentle huff from Old Faithful. Periodically pausing.

Her own heart, slowing.

I don't want to be here. I don't want to be here for this.

Hands

Yes, there again, my dad's hands, kneading and rubbing my calf to work out the cramp.

Or walking to school with Laura…

“Mum said you had to hold my hand over the road.”

“Hold your own hand,” she says callously.

Oh. I'm on my own.

I don't know why, but I flush hot and feel empty in my tummy, and a surge of hot tears boils up. I try to fight them back, I do. I don't want her to think I'm getting in the way. I know she doesn't want to because she wants to look good in front of Danny Refoy and his mates. But Mum
said
. This is what she
said
we had to do.

The thunder in her glare as she snatches up my hand and drags me across the road.

• • •

You took my hand for the first time after our second date—our first proper date after your Easter trip back to the Lakes—walking away from the Blue Plate Café.

I looked down at you questioningly.

“What?” you said, holding up my hand. “You weren't using it, were you?”

“No, no, be my guest.”

All that anxiety about whether it had gone well, about whether we might kiss—gone. I kissed you onto your bus back to your digs.

I didn't want to let go, once you'd set the seal.

I waited too. While the engine idled and the driver checked his watch, I waited, and when he finally hissed the door shut and pulled away, I waved you out of sight.

Then I floated off into town to meet Mal.

Was this love?

It felt like love.

• • •

The kazoo next door pauses, stays paused. One more murmur from beyond: “Do you think that's it?”

And the kazoo begins again.

No more murmur. It was not it.

• • •

Hands, hands.

Your hand in mine.

My hand in yours.

Our hands.

So lovely, so simple to be able to take ownership of someone's hand.

Palms pulsing together.

“Have you noticed,” I say, “you're normally the one who says ‘I love you' first? Then I say it.”

“I hadn't noticed.”

“I never think the second means as much.”

“So I'm winning, would you say?”

“It doesn't mean I'm not thinking it. I always feel a bit defeated when I have to follow up with ‘I love you too.' It's like the sequel to a film:
I Love You
and
I Love You Too
. You know the second one's always going to be a predictable reworking of the first.”

You laugh. “Well,” you say, “it's just like this noise that drops out of my mouth. Sometimes I think it's down to things as simple as luh-luh being nice to say. You say luh-luh, and it feels nice with your tongue and it creates a resonance in your head that feels nice. Nice vibration. And that's got to be a good thing.”

“Bluh blah bloo.”

“Yeah! Exactly that. Bluh blah bloo.”

“Bluh blah bloo too.”

• • •

And the kazoo pauses once more.

Silence.

Soft breathing of the fans of the machines fills in the emptiness.

And that's it.

No more from Old Faithful.

And still no more.

And still.

Heart still.

I hear a strangled sniff, a man's voice. Mr. Old Faithful.

Newborn widower.

The coffee machine rasps into life once more, works up through its steady crescendo of warming the water, reaches its peak and ceases.

And Amber. Amber must be out there too.

Mumless.

Muttering now from next door. Mr. Old Faithful, I think, and Sheila. Sheila's tones sound kind and concise. A nurse I've not seen before emerges, and then Sheila herself appears, leading Mr. Old Faithful and Amber too. None of them looks in, but they walk past my doorway and troop into a room across the corridor. Its door clicks rudely shut.

It's just me out here now.

Me and Old Faithful, on either side of the partition.

The lately living and the due-to-be-dead.

I'm here.

I'm still here.

I'm still awake.

I'm thinking nothing.

What is there to think?

The latch sounds again, and the door draws open. Sheila passes my doorway and disappears into Old Faithful's room once more.

She speaks, softly but clearly, and I can make out her words. “Hello, lovey,” she says. “I'm going to take your wedding ring now, OK? Just going to give it to your husband for safekeeping. I'll be as gentle as I can.”

There is no response.

Till death us do part.

There it is.

Love ends at death.

Does it?

Heart

“Why do you think people link love to their hearts?” I say.

You look up at me in the orange streetlight, push your hair inaccurately back from your face with your mitten. “What do you mean?”

“Or, like, why is your head supposed to be so sensible?”

“Mmm. I don't know. Come on, let's tie a few of these to the bike rack.”

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