Expiration Day (16 page)

“Sorry, love.”

But it was all there, and he gave me a gap-toothed smile as he left, and I smiled and waved back, and I felt all good inside at how I'd been nice and helpful to the old chap. John emerged, carrying two cups of tea.

“Drink up! Who was that? Ernie MacDougall, by the sound of it.”

“An old man, sunken face, blotchy skin. Blotchy everything.”

“That sounds like Ernie. What did he want?”

So I told John what had happened.

“Where's the other can of beans, then, Tania?”

I looked around on the counter. Nothing. Perhaps he'd put the can back on the shelf, just to help me.

No.

The sneaky thief! That sweet old man had tricked me.

“Oh, dear, Tania. You have to watch out for their tricks.”

I think my lip might have trembled at that point. At any rate, I now found myself blurting out everything that had gone wrong with the day, without any full stops.

“Oh, John, it's been a terrible day 'cause I told a lie to my mumandad and they think I've gone to the shops but I spent all my money to come here instead to see you but I lost my way and I strayed near the Red Zone and I got scared and I only just found you again and I'm a silly fool 'cause an old man tricked me and he stole a can of beans while I wasn't looking and why did I come because my mum's poorly and I had no one to talk to and it was my birthday and I was all alone and you're in love with Siân and you never notice me and I owe you fifty-nine for the can of beans.”

Followed by an undignified sniff, which may have been more of a sob.

“Oh.”

Was that it? I pour out my heart and you just say “Oh.” You soulless oaf. You callous, insensitive blockhead. You unsympathetic, isolate lump. You … you …
boy
.

“Don't worry about the fifty-nine.”

“Th … th … thanks.”

Definitely a sob. And thanks for nothing. Didn't you hear me? My confession …

“Sorry, Tania. I don't know what to say. It's … it's not a good time. For discussing … that sort of thing.”

When is?

“Try, John. I've come a long way for answers.”

There. That was pretty self-controlled, wasn't it? And …

“John, I'm trying to tell you how … important … you are to me. Do you remember when you stole some money, and I held you while you wept?”

He looked at me then. Embarrassed and puzzled, both.

“Things have changed since then,” he mumbled.

I wish I knew what he meant. Lots of things had changed.
I'd
changed. I continued.

“Maybe. But you're just as … important … now as you were then. To me.”

Don't make me say it, John. The L-word. The one girls aren't supposed to say first.

“Look, Tania. I think I know where you're going, and what you're trying to say, and … don't go there. We've got a great band, and I really value that more than anything else. Maybe you're right about me and Siân, and maybe you're not. Maybe I've noticed you more than you realize. But I remember when we played the school and we played two verses of ‘Coils,' and I want that top-of-the-mountain feeling again.

“Tania, the band means too much to me to let personal relationships wreck it. They will, you know, if we let them in. So the only thing I'll say is that you're becoming the best bass player in England, and for sure you're the best-looking bass player already.” I grinned. “See, maybe I have noticed you. But what I want is you in my band, even if you look like a witch from
Macbeth
.”

“But, John, I…”

“Don't say it, Tania. Unless it's not what I think it is. Outside the band, I'm learning we're each very different kinds of people and it scares me that our paths can only run together for a short while. While we can, let's be the best damn band we can be, and not risk shortening that time by trying to be anything other than musicians.”

“Oh.”

Tania! How could you listen to such eloquence and just say, “Oh”? And after being so critical of him, too.

Because he'd just dropped the bombshell. “Very different kinds of people.” He
knew
.

“When did you find out?”

He looked away, ashamed.

“It doesn't matter. A few weeks ago, maybe. Leave it. We're a band. I'm the guitarist. You're the bassist. That's what matters.”

 

 

Somehow we moved off that topic, and I got my cup of tea, though I made a face because it was nearly cold. So then we went back to the kitchen and I microwaved it and that made it taste all right again. John chattered about music, and every now and again the shop door rang, and we'd go out front and serve a customer, and then John showed me around the house a bit, and another customer came.

I even put my head round the door of his room, and saw the typical mess of a teenage bedroom. Mine's perfect, of course. (No it isn't, Zog. I'm just pulling your tentacle.) Of course, I'd seen it loads of times on the computer screen, but this was different. I could see and even touch his record collection. Stuff that nobody would ever bother to digitize, so he had to play old vinyl records on a turntable. Weird, but they evoked the feeling of the dawn years of rock and roll, as no flash memory ever will.

“What's this, John? ‘Wail, Baby, Wail.'”

“Kid Thomas. Want to listen?”

“Okay, Kid Czern. Spin it.”

So he dropped the 45 onto the turntable and lowered the arm, like you see on old celluloid transfers. Hisses and crackles emerged from two speakers. Yes, just two. Stereo, very primitive.

Anyway, it started off a bit like classic Chuck Berry guitar, but with added saxophone, and the singer had an amazing voice that reminded me of Jerry Lee Lewis for energy, except the vocal timbre was black, so maybe Little Richard. But then the guitar started to do some strange bends—did he
mean
to play that way, or was it a really bad solo that someone decided to leave in as a joke?

John wasn't very helpful. He'd tried to learn it and ended up deciding if it was bad, it was so bad it was actually good. Nonsense, I argued. There's a perfectly good note he could have played instead, and I'll think of it in a moment.

He laughed, and I got all huffy.

“Don't you laugh at me, Ginger Mop!”

But he didn't stop, so I punched him in the chest. Just gently, in fun, you understand, Mister Zog. To push him away. So he pushed back. Gently. In fun. In the chest.

Then he sprang back, as if he'd touched a live wire. Beneath his ginger mop he was blushing furiously.

“Sorrysorrysorry. I didn't mean to do that, Tania.”

“That's all right, John. A bit gentler, if you don't mind, next time.”

Next time? Oh, you coy little minx, Tania Deeley!

Without thinking, I reached out and took his hand, and drew it back toward my breast. For a moment, he didn't resist. For a moment, I wondered what on earth I'd do when he was finally touching me. And then, three things happened, so close, I couldn't honestly say which was first, second, or third.

One. I felt the faintest, momentary resistance from him.

Two. I remembered those thirty-two bars, and knew I wanted to go on being John's bassist.

Three. The shop bell rang. We had a customer.

Darn it!

 

 

The moment was gone, and I'm not sure that either of us was disappointed that it had passed without incident. Like I said, I really,
really
wanted to be John's bassist. For the sake of those thirty-two bars, and the possibility they might come again.

About half an hour later, I was still there, pottering about the shop with John, when the Czerns returned from their afternoon off. They were surprised, but I thought they'd have asked more questions about how I'd come to be “just passing.” Like, from where? To where? Visiting family? Friends? What are they called? Perhaps we know them.

Fortunately not.

They were kind enough to offer me tea. Mr. Czern was expansive, just as I remembered from the 1970s, offering cream cakes. Mrs. Czern was fussy, endlessly asking if there was anything more I'd like, in between saying, “It's lovely to meet you again, Tania dear, John's always talking about you and the band, you've grown so much since the theme park, a really pretty young lady, don't you say, Jack, what instrument do you play? Oh, the bass guitar, isn't that a bit heavy for a girl?”

And I couldn't leave. Mrs. Czern was a dear. Somehow the subject got onto my parents and then to my mum's illness, and I found myself pouring out all my troubles there, while John looked on with a slightly hurt expression, that I hadn't told
him
all this stuff. Never mind, John, that you'd told me you just wanted us to be guitar-and-bass. But then the conversation moved on again, and they had so much to talk about. Between them I couldn't get a word in edgeways. Even when the shop bell rang, there was never a lull in the conversation—I'd call it a monologue, but Mr. Czern had a knack of seamlessly taking over the thread, whenever his wife ran out of steam, which technically makes it a dialogue—there was never a lull when I could say, “Well, it's been a lovely visit, but I really must be going,” because that was bound to open the question of exactly where I was on my way to, and the possibility they'd offer me a lift to a place I'd totally made up.

Plus it was getting later, and the light would be gone by the time I got back home. I was going to be in deep trouble when I did get home.

In the end, John gave me my cue, ostentatiously clearing the table, and noisily washing up, which made Mrs. Czern rush out to the kitchen, muttering, “What has got into that boy?”

“Mr. Czern…”

“Call me Jack, please…”

“Well, you've looked after me really nicely, and fed me, too, but I really do have to be going. My train…”

“Ah, of course. John will walk you to the station.”

That was a relief. I didn't want to run the gauntlet of Wood Green alone when the light was fading.

Anyway, there were hugs and farewells from John's parents, and they made me promise to come again. John didn't say much on the way to the station and we walked a good foot apart. At the Tube we parted at the top of the escalator. I wanted to hug him good-bye, but he turned and strode away too quickly, waving over his shoulder. I waved back, feeling cheated, and let the escalator carry me back down into the depths.

 

 

I just missed one train, of course, and then all the other changes went wrong. Three hours it took me, Mister Zog, and even then I had to ring and get Dad to fetch me from the station—I'd not enough change left for the bus. And I still owed John fifty-nine.

 

 

Dad. Dad wasn't just angry, he was coldly furious. He started to shout at me, then he suddenly stopped himself. In an atmosphere you could cut an igloo from, we drove home not speaking. I couldn't think of what to say, except a quiet, “Sorry, Dad,” and that got no reaction, unless he compressed his lips even more tightly.

Mum didn't know what to do. She hugged me and started to give me a lecture, but before she got properly started, Dad interrupted and just sent me to my room. Coventry. The ultimate punishment in Dad's repertoire, reserved for the worst transgressions, and one which he'd not employed since I was nine or maybe younger.

Is there anything I've missed? Anything I've not managed to mess up?

Sunday, July 21, 2052

Tip of finger, soft

To brush—'gainst me—Tend'rest glance

Breath of thine, for me

Tuesday, July 30, 2052

Mum tells me she's heard from the hospital. She had a meeting with the consultant and they think they know what it might be. Something called aplastic anaemia. Very rare, apparently, at least we'd never heard of it. But of course, Google has. It's like the body turns on itself and destroys the blood cells pretty much as fast as it can make them. Which is why they've been giving her transfusions.

“Why?” I asked. “What causes it? What's the cure?”

“They don't know what causes it, at least there are some causes they know about, but they don't fit me. Mostly it happens for no obvious reason. As for cures, there are some things they want to try, but some of the best options won't work for me. It's my age, you see, and not having a brother or sister. If I did, they'd try for a match on a bone marrow transplant. If I were younger, they'd try for a match from a nonrelative.”

“So what's left?”

“There's a serum they can try, called ALG. They get it from horses, or rabbits, the doctor said. So they're thinking of giving me this horse serum for a week's course.”

“Fine. When do we start?”

“In a week or two. There's an operation I need first, to put a tube into my chest, for the horse serum. The doctor says the serum is nasty stuff—‘fierce' was the word he used.”

Oh.

Tuesday, September 10, 2052

Our second gig will be, it turns out, the church youth not-Halloween party.

What's a not-Halloween party, you ask? Well, Mister Zog, Halloween is a time when all the kids like to dress up as witches and vampires and whatnot. It's like, occult stuff. And the church feels it has to put on wholesome-but-fun events, to counter the baleful influence of the occult.

So Dad, in his role as the vicar, goes along with this, and tries to put on an event each year that'll stop kids dressing up and doing trick-or-treat. As the vicar's daughter, I have to go. It's really lonely.

But this year Dad suddenly realized that he had a band. Kids like bands, he reasoned. We'll have Tania's band. It's the least they can do, given the church lets them have instruments and rehearsal rooms for free.