If I Could Say Goodbye Page 6

  I’ve drained half of my glass before I reach for one of the books. The cover is purple.

  ‘She had this one for Christmas, it was in her stocking,’ I say. My fingers run over the indentations made with her pen: ‘Kerry Hargreaves 2002’. ‘She was wearing her lilac fleecy pyjamas and had a big gap in the middle of her bottom row of teeth.’

  ‘How do you remember that?’

  ‘She liked that she had a gap in her teeth like me.’

  ‘Oh goodness, I’d forgotten that, she’d been furious when her new tooth grew . . . do you remember her trying to pull it back out? She’d tied string around it and the door handle.’

  I open the first page; the writing blurs and I take a second to wipe my eyes, take another sip of wine and a deep breath.

  ‘The best cartweel.’

  Mum points to Kerry’s misspelt word and chuckles.

  ‘This was when she was going through her gymnastic phase,’ Mum explains.

  1. Starting positions – scores out of ten.

  Feet together – 4/10 I fell on my bum five times AND Jen is moody and wont cartweel today.

  Feet apart. 5/10 my legs hurt and Jen laughed and said I looked like a frog.

  ‘I don’t remember this,’ I say, my finger sliding down the page to the ‘cartweel’ that scored the highest.

  The Best Cartweel 10/10

  Starting position – legs apart (Jen said to point toes like a ‘balrina’

  Top tip.1

  Legs strate

  Jen clapped loudest and is not grumpy so it must be the best of cartweels.

  I top up Mum’s glass and glance through the window where I imagine Kerry demonstrating her best ten-out-of-ten cartwheel. She’s wearing a white sundress; if I was closer, I would be able to see sand on her feet . . . this was the May bank holiday last year. We were on the beach at Barmouth.

  We continue drinking as we go through her best handstand: against the wall; lasted 30 seconds. Only one scraped knee. By the time we get to the ‘crab position’, Mum and I have drained the bottle. I suggest putting Kerry’s scores to the test in that way where ideas like this make perfect sense after a bottle of wine, when without it, they’d sound ludicrous.

  Ed, Hailey and Dad arrive in the garden. It’s one of those freakishly warm days in April where you are kidded into packing your boots away, only to have to get them back out again the following day. As I am handstanding against the kitchen wall, Mum is counting and giggling; my face feels like it is turning puce. Dad stands next to Mum, their faces upside down from my vantage point.

  ‘Are you drunk?’ Dad asks, his voice slightly alarmed.

  ‘I am!’ she replies as my arms begin to jitter.

  Oscar runs into the garden. ‘Mummy, I can see your pants again!’

  ‘Good Lord above!’ Dad responds.

  The alcohol and blood rushing to my head is starting to make me feel queasy. ‘Mum? Can you help me down?’

  But Mum is laughing hard and Dad has turned his upside-down head away from my very visible underwear. I try to remember which ones I’m wearing and with a moment of panic I remember that I hadn’t had time to put a washing load on. The ‘pants’ in question are Ed’s Star Wars boxer shorts, and so right now, there will be a – no doubt confused-looking – Chewbacca staring out from beneath my dress.

  ‘Ed!’ I shout, ‘I’m stuck!’

  ‘Stuck? What are you—’

  I feel his warm hands around my ankles as he rights my position, a mischievous grin on his face. I hold on to the top of his arms as he begins laughing, nuzzling into my hair. ‘Star Wars? That wasn’t on your list of do’s and don’ts. I don’t suppose you’ve got a Princess Leia outfit hidden upstairs, have you?’

  I bury my face in his chest and start laughing.

  ‘I could peel off a few princess layers . . .’ he carries on.

  ‘Oh, shut up.’

  ‘Do you want to feel my lightsaber?’

  I hit him on the arm and straighten myself.

  ‘What are all of these books?’ Oscar asks, sitting at the table next to Hailey. Her head is already buried deep within the pages.

  ‘They’re your Aunty Kerry’s notebooks.’

  Dad has sat down in an exasperated state on one of the garden chairs and is wiping his forehead with a hanky. The glimpse of my underwear, again, has obviously taken its toll.

  ‘Well, when I was a little girl like you—’

  ‘I’m not a girl!’ Oscar holds his nose and waves his hand in front of it like he’s just smelt something bad.

  ‘Oh, you know what I mean, silly. When I was little . . .’ I raise my eyes and Oscar nods, confirming that this is a better description, ‘. . . your Aunty Kerry used to have lots of notebooks like these and she would do the most amazing things and write them down. I thought we could do some of her crazy things.’

  He leans over Hailey’s arm to read the contents.

  ‘Skipping Songs that get the biggest number of jumps.

  1.Down in the valley = Me – 15 Jen – 16

  2.Cinderella = Me 21 (it was actually 22 but Jen says it didn’t count because I got my foot stuck on the rope but it doesn’t matter because Jen only got 19 so there)

  ‘What’s “Down in the valley”?’ Hailey asks, pushing her glasses up her nose and turning to me.

  ‘It’s a song you sing when you skip . . . don’t you do them at school?’

  ‘We’re not allowed to play with skipping ropes after Chloe almost choked Jamil with it.’

  ‘Oh. Well, I suppose with health and safety and all of that . . .’ My voice trails off.

  Ed’s mouth opens and closes as though he’s about to add his views on health and safety but thinks better of it.

  ‘It goes . . .’ I continue:

  ‘Down in the valley,

  Where the green grass grows . . .’

  Kerry joins in, as does Ed:

  ‘There sat Janey,

  Sweet as a rose.

  Along came . . .’

  ‘Johnny? Or was it Jimmy?’ Mum questions as she goes into the house.

  ‘Johnny,’ Ed clarifies:

  ‘And kissed her on the cheek.

  How many kisses did she get this week?’

  ‘. . . And then you start counting with each jump . . . One, two, three, four, five . . .’

  ‘Can we do the skipping song? Can I go and get my rope?’

  ‘Yes! That sounds like great fun!’ Mum announces, returning to the garden with another bottle of wine and two more glasses.

  The afternoon passes in a haze of laughter as we work our way through the wine and skipping songs. Even Dad has a go, but sadly only manages to get three kisses from Johnny; Ed on the other hand is all kissed out. I look around the garden from behind my sunglasses, watching them all giggling and laughing, the flush to Oscar’s cheeks and the way his tongue pokes out as he concentrates; the beam of pride as Hailey gets better with each try and the memory of my sister, watching it all from the tyre swing that hangs from the old apple tree at the bottom of the garden.

  Today has been a good day.

  Chapter Twelve

  Jennifer

  I have walked past these pop-up events that are held in the centre square of town many times. At Christmas, the main square is made into an ice rink; Kerry was part of the opening ceremony once. Today, it’s a roller-boot park. There is a flat surface as well as ramps and rails for the more experienced skater, one of whom – a man dressed like a teenager, his thinning hair somehow holding on to a man bun – is making a very pleasing grinding sound. Toddlers and mothers are hanging on to the sides: laughter and tears, encouragement and worry. Just past the hangers-on are the speeders, the roller-booted elite, their boots from a specialist shop brought with them. In the middle are a few teenagers, half-way from childhood to adulthood, unsure if they should look like they’re enjoying it or look indifferent. A little girl with her brow furrowed in concentration has just let go of her mother’s hands and is moving forwar
d on her wheels, the mother’s face a picture of pride.

  My feet continue to walk past, but then hesitate. Why am I hesitating? I’m on my way to a café, it has the most delicious wares in the window, and I promised myself that I’d have one.

  ‘Jen!’ Kerry shouts at me from within the rink, as she did so many times when I had been sat in the stalls doing my homework while she practised: spinning on one leg, her body blurring as the momentum of her spin took hold, her arms outstretched. She pulls herself into a stop, her face flushed, her eyes wide and her black AC/DC top skimming the top of her pierced belly button. ‘You don’t need that! You need this! Come on . . . you know you want to!’ She skates backwards, her legs crossing over each other seamlessly.

  The teenage boy looks at me as I hesitate and scour the prices board.

  ‘Thinking of bringing your kids?’ he asks. ‘Only, we’ve got an area sectioned off for kids with a foam party running at four till five. The little’uns love it.’

  ‘Um . . . actually, no, I was thinking that I might have a go. By myself.’

  His face changes into an expression that could be interpreted in a variety of ways. It’s the type of expression that shows the thoughts behind his stubbly chin. The first that comes to mind is ‘It’s your funeral’ . . . funny in the circumstances.

  ‘Hurry up, Jen!’ Kerry shouts.

  ‘How much?’ I ask.

  The boy takes my money and directs me towards the wooden booth where I am to hire my boots. I ask for a size three and a half from the bored-looking teenaged girl, who gives me a size four. I’m about to raise the issue but she has already returned her focus to her phone screen.

  I lace up the boots and try to move. My knees bend and I feel my body form itself into a squatting position. Kerry’s memory zooms past me in a blur, her leg balanced out straight behind her. I try to pull myself up and begin to push my feet forward in little shuffling movements as I begin to gather some pace. I feel a grin creep its way between the creases of concentration and fear that have formed around my mouth.

  It takes me a while, but I manage to do a lap, my balance improving with my confidence. I continue to circuit the rink, managing to take my eyes away from the ground as my speed picks up with my mood. My breath is becoming laboured but it’s a good feeling, I can feel the endorphins popping around my body; I let out a little ‘whoop’ as I pass the teenage admission boy for the third time, giving him a smug smile. You see? I can do this, my face tries to express. But behind the teenager, and across the street, is my sister’s fiancée. Is she her fiancée? Was she?

  Nessa’s skin is grey, and her hair is limp. She is pacing up and down repeatedly; the air around her pulses. Nessa’s phone is gripped by white knuckles, her mouth moving quickly, as angry words push and shove each other, spitting out sentences and sucking in responses.

  The glory I was feeling is becoming bruised as I find myself rollering (skating?) towards her, and the barrier between us. She stops speaking. Her eyes meet mine and for a split second I feel like the pain she feels is hammering against my head, clawing at my skin.

  She looks away from me hesitantly.

  ‘Nessa!’ I shout, which is quickly followed with an ‘ooof!’ as I avoid a speeding toddler and crash into the barrier. I catch my breath and shout at her again. She glances back over her shoulder and continues to talk into the phone, her feet taking her away from me. Beneath me is a bolt holding a gate in place. I turn my head as slowly and inconspicuously as I can towards the teenager, who is looking in the other direction. My fingers slide the bolt across; I cough loudly to cover up the squeak coming from inside my palm and continue to slide the bolt back. I step out of the rink and begin to take tentative steps on my stoppers towards Nessa.

  ‘Hey! Woman!’ the teenager shouts. ‘You can’t leave the enclosed area with your boots on!’

  I look back towards Nessa and speed up my tippy-toed, stopper-steps, towards her, whilst mouthing a sorry gesture over my shoulder at the teenager and pointing towards Nessa by way of explanation. But in my attempts to appease the boy, my wheels have somehow tilted backwards from their stoppers, and I begin to make haste.

  The path beneath me, I notice, is made of recently laid smooth tarmac and has a distinct ‘downhill’ feel to it.

  ‘Oh nuts.’ I try to slow my momentum, while simultaneously calling Nessa’s name. She has stopped walking and is staring at me with wide eyes as I career past perplexed shoppers, my arms gesturing wildly in strange semi-circles à la the Karate Kid: wax-off, wax-off, wax-off. Behind me, I can hear that the teenager has given chase.

  ‘Neeeesssaaaaa!’ My eyes widen, an expression of ‘help!’ and ‘look out!’ all in one. I crash into her arms, knocking her body backwards. We both land with a thud, on Wilko’s doorstep.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I ask as she removes herself from my tangled limbs. The teenager has come to an abrupt stop and is removing the boots from my feet.

  ‘Oi!’ An outraged woman pulling along a material shopping bag has begun hitting him on the head with her handbag. ‘You.’ Thwack. ‘Thieving.’ Thwack. ‘Little.’ Thwack. ‘So and so!’

  The teenager releases my feet and tries to protect his head. I untangle the laces, pull the boots free and give them to the boy with an apology as Nessa brushes herself down. The woman stops her assault, registers what is going on in front of her and gives me a look of contempt usually saved for dog poo offenders.

  The teenager and lady retreat and I’m left in my socks, which are odd, I notice, one red and one blue.

  My arms envelop Nessa in a hug, but her back remains rigid, wire arms hanging limply by her sides.

  ‘Come and have some cake,’ my eager voice says, laying out the word cake like a travelling salesman: cake is the answer, it can fix you, the voice implies, you cannot carry on living your life without it. I gesture to the café behind me. She twists her neck from side to side, both of us ignoring the cracks and snaps of her ligaments.

  ‘I don’t like cake.’

  Kerry is standing beside her, skates swinging from the laces looped over her fingers, while her other hand slips into Nessa’s, her head leaning against her shoulder. ‘Ask her for help, she never could turn down a lost cause.’ Kerry’s smile is sad.

  ‘A coffee? Tea?’

  Nessa passes the phone between nervous hands and looks over her shoulder; for a moment I wonder if she can see Kerry too, but she’s looking through Kerry’s face, as though she is looking for an excuse not to follow me. Kerry steps back from Nessa and I replace her hand by linking my arm through Nessa’s. She is covered in grey, in darkness; her body seems to be weighted, each movement hampered by something hidden, something dark. She detaches herself from my arm.

  ‘I don’t think this is a good idea.’ Nessa steps backwards from me. ‘I don’t think I can just—’

  The teenager returns to our side and drops my Converse at my feet without saying a word.

  ‘Thank you and sorry—’ I begin, but he has already turned back and is returning to his duties.

  ‘Just one coffee?’ I ask Nessa again. She gives me a short nod and follows me in, sitting herself at a table while I go to the counter and order two drinks.

  ‘Get her a chocolate-chip cookie, she can’t resist a cookie.’

  I return to the table. Nessa is tapping it repeatedly.

  ‘I’ve never been in here before,’ I tell her, trying to force a conversation across the table along with her cookie.

  ‘Me neither.’ The conversation slides back towards me.

  ‘Seriously? That’s what you’re going with? Do you come here often?’ Kerry snorts from the seat opposite me, next to Nessa, spraying bits of chocolate muffin all over her blue-and-white-striped shirt: the shirt we had her cremated in.

  ‘Where are you staying? Back at the flat?’

  Nessa’s skin pales as she breaks the cookie in half. ‘No. I’ve left the flat. I’m renting a house. I put K—’ . . . the name Kerry seems too hard for her to say and
she gulps it back down, ‘her things into storage. I’ll take them to your mum and dad’s when—’

  ‘The dust settles?’ I hear myself saying. The image of Kerry’s ashes seems to float between us, like motes dancing in the sunlight, before gravity pulls them down and they crash from the air, landing like a mound of dirt.

  She nods.

  ‘How’s Erica?’

  ‘She’s OK. I don’t think she understands that Kerry is not . . . not . . . coming back. She was used to her staying over and then not being there for a few days. Even though I’ve tried to explain, she keeps forgetting and will ask if Kerry’s coming over. It takes everything in me not to scream at her, you know?’

  I nod my head, even though I don’t know. Kerry’s death has had the opposite effect on me; I can’t bear it when I’m not with the kids. They are the ones who brought me back when I didn’t think I would ever shake off the grief.

  ‘Where did you go, Ness? After the funeral.’

  ‘Dad’s.’

  ‘Scotland?’

  She nods. ‘I just needed to be away. From here, from you and Ed and the kids and Kerry’s ghost, I guess.’

  ‘Well, that’s rude.’ Kerry crosses her arms and wears a mock annoyed expression.

  ‘Are you sleeping?’ I find myself asking.

  Nessa shakes her head, confirming the negative, her eyes meeting mine, a thousand nightmares and night sweats shared between us with one look.

  ‘Are you still thinking about getting a job?’ Nessa changes the subject. Before Kerry died, I had been looking into going back to work since Oscar had started school.

  I shake my head, remembering how I had tried to fill in applications. ‘I tried to, but when Kerry . . . when she died and I, well, I . . . it’s a long story.’ I dismiss my months of crippling grief with a waft of my hand. ‘Are you managing to—’ Work, breathe? Live? My mouth opens and closes, chewing on empty words: ‘Work?’

  ‘Not yet. I’ve written a few reviews but not submitted them yet, I think they may well be a bit crap.’

  ‘The films or the reviews?’ I ask, trying to make light of the idea that not being immersed in her job as a film critic for the local paper is normal behaviour for her, when we both know that her job is as much part of her as Kerry was.