When God Was a Rabbit (12 page)

‘By who?’ I asked suspiciously, as I tied the final knot.

‘By me, of course!’ he said, and a waft of smoke flew into my face and I coughed.

‘I will take you to O level. English – Literature and Language, Mathematics, Geography, History – my favourite, of course; French and German. Your mother has a friend in the village who’s prepared to cover the Art. So what do you think? Apparently it’s non-negotiable and you’ll have to work your bloody socks off. Take it or leave it?’

‘Take it,’ I said quickly, ignoring the darting line hanging over the edge; the line disappearing into the spumey wake with five mackerel thrashing to the depths with all their might.

The sun was low, and our quota of fish caught. I cut the engine and we drifted with the current – a moment of quiet – the slap of waves against the side, an overhead gull, the faint sound of a radio coming from a cove. I nervously placed the anchor over the edge. The rope uncoiled hastily and I was careful to keep my limbs away from its hunger, so present in my mind were the stories of children dragged to their deaths by a wayward foot or hand. The rope suddenly went slack and I relaxed.

We rose and fell gently on the wake of a passing motor boat, and as the sound of its engine settled beyond the cliffs, Arthur unwrapped the tin foil and handed me a piece of Victoria sponge, my favourite. Jam oozed from its sides and I licked my hand, a curious taste now of strawberry, butter-cream and fish. I looked over at the foil and wondered if we might share the last piece of cake, and as I was about to suggest the plan, the distant sound of a bell rang out across the waves.

‘Don’t tell me there’s a church nearby?’ said Arthur, pouring a cup of tea from his Thermos and looking about at the watery, empty surround.

‘No, no. It’s actually a bell on the water. Way out there,’ I said, pointing to the faint line that was actually a lighthouse. ‘Not many people know about it, but I do, Arthur. I’ve seen it.’

‘Have you indeed? Well, I like the sound. It’s rather eerie,’ he said. ‘Mournful. Grieving all those lost at sea, I suppose.’

‘I suppose it is,’ I said, never having thought of it that way.

It had been an adventure to me, that was all. An adventure most people said was make-believe, but I had seen it and so had my brother. A year before, it had loomed towards us out of the mist, a large brass bell floating on the waves as if it had been carelessly dropped from some heavenly steeple. It was a bell that called no one to prayer, and yet there we were, moored right next to it.

‘This is creepy,’ said my brother.

‘More than creepy. We shouldn’t be out here,’ I said as I ran my hand across the rough cold metal, and as my brother started the engine, the bell suddenly struck its note and I fell to the floor in tears. I told my brother I had slipped, caught my foot on some rope. But what I never told him was that as the bell chimed, the metal suddenly felt warm; as if it had secretly craved the scanty touch of human contact and the sound it had so suddenly made was actually the sound of its pain.

‘Do you believe in God, Arthur?’ I said, eating the last piece of sponge.

‘Do I believe in an old man in the clouds with a white beard judging us mortals with a moral code from one to ten? Good Lord no, my sweet Elly, I do not! I would have been cast out from this life years ago with my tatty history. Do I believe in a mystery; the unexplained phenomenon that is life itself? The greater something that illuminates inconsequence in our lives; that gives us something to strive for as well as the humility to brush ourselves down and start all over again? Then yes, I do. It is the source of art, of beauty, of love, and proffers the ultimate goodness to mankind. That to me is God. That to me is life. That is what I believe in.’

I listened to the bell again, whispering across the waves, calling, calling. I licked my fingers and scrunched the tin foil up into a ball.

‘Do you think a rabbit could be God?’ I asked casually.

‘There is absolutely no reason at all why a rabbit should not be God.’

It is December again. My birthday. It is also the day when John Lennon was shot. A man went up to him and shot him outside his home in New York, wife next to him. Simply shot him. I can’t understand it; wouldn’t for days.

‘The good die young,’ says Jenny Penny during our phone conversation.

‘Why?’ I ask.

But she pretends not to hear me, pretends that the line is bad. She always does that when she doesn’t have an answer.

I go to bed early that night, inconsolable. I don’t even blow out the candles on my cake.

‘One candle’s already gone out in the world,’ I say. I leave my presents for another day. There is simply nothing to celebrate.

I waited at the small station, looking down from the bridge at the simple symmetry of tracking that went left or right: to London or to Penzance. I’d got there early. I liked to get there early, hopeful that the impossible might happen and the train would shatter its timetable, but it never did. The morning air was grey and freezing. I blew on my hands and misted breath streamed from my mouth. The cold had quickly got through to my shoes and was settling down into my toes; they would be white now and only a bath could give them back life.

I hadn’t seen him for three whole months; locked away was he into term life and those London streets that stole him from me and left me instead with a pile of letters that were filed away in an A4 folder, with
PRIVATE
taped on the front. He was really good at Economics, he wrote, and he was really good at Art. He was in a choir and had started playing rugby again, now that he felt settled, now that he was happier. I thought ‘playing rugby’ was code for a new boyfriend, but it wasn’t; he really had started playing rugby again. Love, it seemed, was as distant as memory.

There was nothing at this station; no café, no waiting room. There was only a shelter on the platform that became both useful and not useful, depending on the direction of the wind. I was too excited to wait in the van and listen to Alan’s tape of Cliff Richard, which I seemed to know backwards and would have sounded much better to me had it been sung that way. Alan liked Cliff Richard, but he
loved
Barry Manilow. He’d listened to him in prison and the words had given him hope, he said. Even ‘Copacabana’? I asked.
Especially
‘Copacabana’, he said.

Alan had been our driver for a year now, and ferried our guests with the patience of a saint. He couldn’t get any work before us, but he’d been honest with my father, who was the one man who believed in the redemptive power of a second chance. He put Alan on full pay, with the sole caveat that he should be ready for duty day or night. Alan agreed, and as the wage and respectability re-entered his life, so did his wife and child, and that faint stint of incarceration faded into make-believe, until nobody could really be sure whether it had happened or not.

The red and white signal marker suddenly raised its sluggish head. I saw the smoke first, as always, then the dark barrelled front barging its way across the countryside like some unstoppable bully. First class passed underneath me and then the buffet, carriage one, then two and then another until the train slowed into the station and I started to practise what I was going to say to him. Just as the train stopped, a door flung open and I saw his arm. He threw his kitbag out first (apparently they were all the rage at his school), and then he emerged wearing a Santa hat and sunglasses.

‘Joe!’ I shouted, and ran to the end of the bridge. He darted up the slope towards me.

‘Stay there!’ he yelled as he fought against the wind and attempted to get his heart pumping after three and a half sedentary hours in a forward-facing seat. And I felt myself lifted up into the grey morning sky, before falling into his woollayered chest. He was wearing aftershave. I’d bought him aftershave for Christmas, damn.

‘Hello,’ he said. ‘You look great.’

‘I’ve missed you,’ I said, as the first of my tears fell onto his sunglasses.

Alan always drove the long scenic route back to our house whenever my brother came home. It gave us time to gossip about my mother and father, and for my brother to reacquaint himself with the fields and hedgerows and vistas he once knew so intimately. Now and then, I would catch Alan looking in the rear-view mirror at us, eyes widening over information most normal families would have kept private and wouldn’t have discussed until they were safely behind the confines of a closed door.

‘Nancy kissed Mum,’ I said to Joe.

Alan’s eyes grew very big.

‘When?’ said Joe excitedly.

‘About a month ago. When she broke up with Anna.’

Alan steered into the verge.

‘She was really sad about that,’ Joe said.

‘Devastated,’ I said.

‘It was to do with newspapers and stuff.’

‘Was it?’ I said. ‘I didn’t know. Well, anyway, Nancy was crying outside on the patio and Mum was holding her and when Nancy looked up, she pulled Mum onto her lips and kissed her;
tongues
as well.’

Alan crunched the gears. He couldn’t find third.

‘No?’ said Joe.

‘And,’ I said, now really trying to catch my breath, ‘they didn’t move. They stayed like that for ages. Mum didn’t move.’

‘No?’ said Joe.

‘And,’ I said, ‘when they finally pulled away, they laughed.’

‘No?’ said Joe.

‘And,’ I said, ‘Mum said, “Oops,” and they laughed again.’

Alan stalled.

‘And guess what?’ I said.

‘What?’ said Joe.

‘I told Dad.’

‘You didn’t?’ said Alan, suddenly taking his eyes off the road.

‘I did,’ I said to Alan.

‘What did he say?’ asked Joe.

‘He laughed and said, “At last! At least we’ve got that out of the way.” ’

‘Unbelievable,’ said Joe.

Alan lost his wing mirror turning into our gateway.

My brother looked around his room, looking for differences, changes we might have made in his absence. But it was all there, exactly as he had left it: a room stalled by an interrupted moment; a grab-a-bag dash to catch a train; an exposed deodorant (now dry) awaiting his return; a newspaper, three months old, sprawled next to his bed.

I sat down and watched him unpack a bag full of dirty laundry.

‘Did you know that Michael Trewellin died?’ I said.

‘Yeah,’ said my brother as he folded one of his clean shirts.

‘Drowned,’ I said.

‘I know,’ he said.

‘We went to his funeral,’ I said.

‘Oh, yeah?’

‘They’re weird, aren’t they?’ I said.

‘S’pose they are,’ he said.

‘Everyone staring at the coffin,’ I said.

‘I didn’t know they found the body,’ he said.

‘They didn’t. Maybe that’s why we were all staring at the coffin,’ I said.

‘Maybe,’ he said.

‘Wondering what was inside,’ I said.

I reached for a magazine and opened it up at its centrefold: a tanned man in a very small towel. I was used to pictures like this when my brother came home. He’d probably give the magazine to Arthur and Arthur would say, ‘Oh, you naughty, naughty boy.’

‘I saw Beth in the village a couple of days ago,’ I said, trying to sound lighter.

‘Beth?’ he said, stopping to look at me.

‘Michael Trewellin’s
sister
. I don’t think you knew her very well,’ I said. ‘She was younger. About my age.’

I watched him fold a jumper.

‘Is she all right?’ he said.

‘She looked very sad,’ I said. ‘Understandable really.’

He came and sat next to me on the bed, as if he knew where my thoughts were heading.

‘Nothing will happen to
me
, Elly,’ he said. ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ and he placed his arm around my shoulder. ‘I’m not Michael.’

‘I don’t think I could bear it,’ I said. ‘She just looked so sad.’

My father asked for the lights to be turned off as he proudly held up the neon sign.

‘There’s
aways rum
at our
im
?’ said my mother, trying to read the joined-up writing shining green in the darkened room.

‘There’s
always room
at our
inn
,’ said my father, a touch of exasperation entering his voice. ‘It’s my Christmas message. I told you last summer I was planning something different,’ and he had.

We’d been in the kitchen making lemon ice when he’d told us about his plans for a no-charge policy over Christmas.

‘Our door is open to everyone, rich or poor,’ he said, and my mother told him she loved him and led him out into the garden for a quiet kiss. For a man whose severe dislike of organised religion was notorious, his charity was becoming more and more Christian every day, and my brother looked at me and shook his head and said, ‘This can only lead to a donkey, a stable and a real baby.’

‘And don’t forget the star in the east,’ said Arthur.

‘That’ll be me then,’ said Nancy, as she walked through the door, lighting a cigar.

My father quickly turned the lights back on and said he was going to affix his sign at the top of the pathway between the waving camel and the naked Santa, should anyone wish to join him. Strangely no one did.

Our one and only guest that Christmas was a Ms Vivienne Collard, or Ginger, as she liked to be called. She was Arthur’s closest friend, and had first come to us four months ago with a broken foot as well as a broken heart (the two weren’t connected). She was a Shirley Bassey impersonator, and with her red hair and pale skin, she stood out as one of the unique ones, if not exactly the best. When she sang ‘Goldfinger’ she curled her index finger in front of your nose and when you could finally focus, you could see that she had painted it gold. And when she sang ‘Big Spender’ she threw Monopoly money into the air. But when she sang ‘Easy Thing to Do’ no eye was left dry in our tinselled house. Arthur said he would have changed sides for a woman like that, until she sang a cover of ‘Send in the Clowns’, dressed as one.

Arthur and Ginger were inseparable when they got together. They had first met years ago on the London scene when their faces were smooth and devoid of experience, and had ended up sharing many things, including a flat in Bayswater and a ballet dancer called Robin. Their banter was rich and comfortable, their teasing intimate and profound; their ‘I love you’ without the use of those startling words.

Ginger arrived at our house at five o’clock on Christmas Eve, armed only with a suitcase full of champagne ‘and a change of knickers’, as she liked to whisper to Arthur, just to make him recoil into the darker recesses of our living room.

‘Thank you, Alan,’ she said as she tucked a five-pound note into his large palm. ‘And a happy Christmas, pet.’

‘That’s not necessary, Ginger,’ said Alan, attempting to tuck the note back into her coat pocket.

‘You get something for that little girl of yours,’ said Ginger, and Alan said he would, but never told her that the little girl was actually a chubby little boy called Alan junior.

‘I love Alan,’ said Ginger turning to my father, as the van disappeared up the drive. ‘What was he
in
for again?’ she asked nonchalantly.

‘Can’t catch me out that way, Ginger,’ he said as he hugged her tightly.

Everyone wanted to know what Alan’s crime was, but my father never told anyone, not even my mother.

‘Hello, my treasure,’ Ginger said to me as I carried freshly laundered towels to her room. ‘Come and sit here and tell me your news,’ and she patted her legs and I went and sat on her wide lap. I always worried that I’d crush her but when I felt her thick thighs beneath mine, I knew she was made of hardy stuff.

‘Made any good friends yet?’ she said.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Not yet. Joe says I’m a loner.’

‘Me too, kid. Nothing wrong with that.’

(She wasn’t but I was grateful that she’d tried.)

‘And how’s that Jenny Penny? Is she coming for the holidays? Will I meet her at last?’

‘No, her mum said she can’t.’

‘Strange one, that one.’

‘Mmm. She’s got her period now, you know.’

‘Has she now? And what about you?’ she asked.

‘Not yet. Still waiting,’ I said.

‘Well, you wait on,’ she said. ‘You’ll have that bloody thing clogging up your knickers for years. Lift up,’ she added, clumsily adjusting the position of her skirt. ‘So how’s that big bad brother of yours?’

‘He’s OK,’ I said.

‘Still queer?’ she said.

‘Yep. It’s definitely not a phase.’

‘Well, good for him,’ said Ginger. ‘And you? Got a boyfriend yet?’

‘No, I don’t want one, actually,’ I said.

‘Why’s that then?’

‘Well,’ I began, ‘there was somebody who was a bit interested in me once. But I left it too late.’

‘Oh?’ she said. ‘And what? He just buggered off, did he?’

‘Sort of,’ I said. ‘He drowned.’

‘Oh,’ she said.

‘He was called Michael,’ I said.

‘Well, good job you weren’t with him, eh?’ she said, ‘otherwise you probably wouldn’t be here now,’ and she started to rummage around in her suitcase, obviously unable to think of anything better to say. But Ginger was like that: emotions embarrassed her except when she sang. My dad said that was exactly
why
she sang.

‘Here,’ she said, handing me a beautifully wrapped gift. ‘I wrapped it myself.’

‘Is it for me?’ I asked.

‘Who else?’ she said. ‘It’s a ring.’

‘Gosh,’ I said.

‘It was my mother’s, but I can’t get it on my finger any more because I’m too fat. Thought you might as well have it,’ she said, not looking at me.

(Translation:
I love you and would like you to have something that’s very dear to me
.)

I opened the box and saw a diamond – and sapphire-encrusted ring, which caught the overhead light and shone into my face like footlights.