The Girl in the Red Coat (19 page)

DAY 180

I bought the textbooks in a second-hand shop.

Biology books. I wiped the dust from the green covers and took them to the old man behind the wooden counter.

‘All of them?’ he asked. There were only three – he couldn’t get a lot of custom.

‘Yes, please.’

I opened the cover of the one on top of the pile. It had been published in 1969.

‘Except …?’ Then I smiled. ‘Sorry, I thought the information might be out of date. But of course – the human body – it doesn’t go out of date, does it?’

It was a task I’d set myself. The ‘tiny actions’ I’d talked about with Craig had expanded. Now I told him: ‘Tiny actions, for other people.’

I’d had an idea: maybe one day I could train to be a nurse. Maybe actions for other people would be a key. It was too soon, everyone said, and of course it was, but I made a deal with him. I would try and cut down on my looking and study some biology, if I could concentrate. The police investigation had gone quiet, for now, though I didn’t know if that would make it harder or easier.

It helped, somehow, learning the human body:
the spinal cord consists of areas of white and grey matter … the back
of the eye is filled with clear jelly … muscle contraction can be voluntary (controlled by will) or involuntary (automatic, i.e. reflex)
.

On a good day I felt I was nearing some mystery of human existence: eyes, hands, feet, womb, fingernails. As if Carmel had not been taken but had shattered apart into fragments. An explosion of particles, fine like glass, and I could somehow learn to knit her back together again. I could feel her textures under my fingers. The slide of my thumb across a clean curl. The crispy skin of a healing cut. Bone, at the ankle – raw and knobbly. Meanwhile, her map grew. When a name came to me I hadn’t thought of before – even some hardly known acquaintance I’d almost forgotten – I’d slip into her room and add it there. I’d had to stick two extra huge sheets of paper next to the others to cope with the burgeoning network. I kept at it but it never seemed to tell me anything that made sense.

Good days had tracts of calm. But on a bad day I wanted to visit violence on myself, at the same time knowing how I had to stay well and healthy. That, despite everything, I had to stay whole. So, I let myself wander there in my head. I’d have visions of severing my spine with bolt cutters. Cracking my head against the wall so a long spill of blood ran down and pooled on the floor around my toes. Smashing my hand through the window and scraping it back and forth on the broken glass. It gave me a relief, these visions. But I knew I couldn’t linger in their technicolor for too long.

I had to stay sane.

Tiny actions. I planted up the container by the front door with bulbs for next spring.

‘Well done,’ my mother said when she arrived, a Waitrose
grocery bag in each hand. My parents stayed often now, in my house. Mum cooked and Dad pottered around the garden. It was like time had gone backwards and here we were, just the three of us again. Mum, Dad and Beth. They paid my bills too, for the time being, since returning to work still defeated me.

‘That’s good. I’ll make you something to eat. Something light, we have to keep you alive, darling. We have to keep on going.’

We did.

The heart is a hollow, inverted pear-shaped muscle. Inside it is divided into four chambers
…

Next spring, I think, then it will have been a whole year.

At the white wood church Gramps’s sparkly energy comes back, but it doesn’t fly around this time. It’s tighter, like a beam of light.

‘Inside, room for everybody. Inside, and you folk make yourselves comfortable.’ He reminds me of the man outside the circus tent calling everybody in.

In my school we went to an old church for harvest festival. We found a stone grave with the name
Elsie
and she’d died when she was only five years old and six months. But this church is painted bright new white and it’s on top of a hill so you can see for miles around over yellow fields because it’s the only hill that’s there.

Gramps has got us all lined up by the door.

A woman in a dark pink hat says, ‘Hello,’ and, ‘What a fine, fine day,’ to Gramps. When she speaks the flowers on her hat – held on by wires – go up and down in Gramps’s direction, like they want to talk to him too. She says, ‘Such news has been coming our way. How blessed we are you made it so far up country.’

Gramps takes her hand and holds it against his chest.

He’s been worried that no one would come. We got here early and a friend he knows called Bill was already there smoking, with the smoke going up in a line into the air. For a long time nothing happened and Gramps asked Bill if he put all the flyers out and Bill said yes, and not to panic.
Then, across the fields, I started seeing people, tiny in the distance, crawling along like the bell going dong, dong, dong – rocking on the church roof – was calling feeding time for snails and they were crawling towards it. And when they got closer I could hear singing and some were in wheelchairs and some were walking with sticks.

‘My dear, dear lady,’ Gramps says to the lady in the hat, like he’s about to cry. I do hope he doesn’t. The way these people are – coming up to us so quiet, like we’re really something special – I don’t know what they’d do.

The woman in the hat’s husband pops up in front of us and I have to jam my hand on my mouth to stop me screaming because one of his eyes is like a huge egg made of clear jelly spilling out of his eyehole.

‘Pastor Patron,’ he doesn’t want to let go of Gramps’s hand, ‘we’re awful glad to see you here, we really are.’

When he speaks you can see how it hurts his face. His eye pushes down on that side of his mouth and his words have to come out of a gap the other side so they whistle. The way I’ve been feeling about his eye, that it’s disgusting and it looks like it’s a home for a slug, that feeling melts away and I just feel sorry for him. Then the flowers hover over the woman’s head as they go inside the dark church.

‘Gramps, what are all these people doing here?’

But he’s not listening to me. He’s concentrating too hard, leaning down and tickling the faces of babies in their
pushchairs
and patting the hair of children in wheelchairs.

Dorothy doesn’t say much. She’s wearing a posh purple suit with a skirt that only goes to her knees, silky tights, shoes with heels and pearly earrings in her ears. Her hair is different too – in a bun – and it’s hard to think it’s Dorothy even.

When the people are inside Gramps says, ‘Well, I guess our time has come.’ He puts his hand on our backs one by one to make us go in. I can tell he wants to go in last.

Inside, the stage has got a microphone and chairs and a blue carpet that comes from the stage right down the middle to the front door. The record player playing the crackled-up music is up there too and every time it turns round the sun flashes off the record.

People turn to look at us and I see the man with the egg eye and the lady with the flower hat. I smile at them and they smile back and the lady’s flowers nod hello to me.

Gramps walks up to the stage but we don’t go with him. I sit next to Melody, at the end of one of the rows of benches; I want to stick real close to her. ‘What’s going to happen?’ I ask her.

‘You’ll see. We’ll sing and pray. Pa will do some powerful talking and spirit might come.’

Everyone stands up and I can hardly see, just the big back of the man in front with sweat coming through his blue shirt. Then I hear Gramps’s voice – he must be talking through a microphone because it’s booming out and it makes him super powerful.

‘What a day. What a day for the healing spirit of the Lord to alight on this very place …’

Someone shouts in a loud voice from the back: ‘Amen’ – that nearly makes me jump out of my skin and it seems to set them all off, yelling out.

The church is hot and I start to feel dizzy and afraid. I creep my hand over to Melody and put it inside hers and she squeezes it tight. Then, Bill changes the record to one that’s only music on it and no singing. He switches on a
machine and it makes lit-up words go onto the wall at the back above Gramps’s head and everyone sings about being a blade of grass cut down.

When the singing finishes, everything goes silent. I peep round the man’s big back and up to the stage, but not letting go of Melody’s hand. For a minute I think Gramps is crying. He’s got his face in his hands and his shoulders are moving up and down and the crowd groan and shuffle round on their shoes. It feels like ages till he lifts up his head and holds his arms out wide and I can let my breath go at last. He looks up at the ceiling.

‘Come, come and be moved by the spirit.’

The record gets to the end but keeps going round and round making scratchy noises. Nobody moves and it feels like a bomb is about to drop on us.

When I think I can’t stand it any more a man jumps out of his seat and runs up to Gramps on the stage. He’s black and young and he’s wearing a shiny blue suit that looks too small for him.

Bill changes the record to deep slow singing.

Gramps holds out the microphone. ‘Tell me, son. What is your name?’ His blue eyes look over us as he asks, like we’re all in it together.

A name gets said into the microphone but it sounds like ‘Flim’ so I don’t think I’ve heard it right. He grins at the crowd.

Gramps asks, ‘What’s wrong with you, young man? What’s ailing you today?’

There didn’t look much wrong with Flim, not when he was jumping up onto the stage anyway. He doesn’t answer, he just seems to like being up there and he keeps waving
and smiling at us. I don’t think he knows that Gramps is getting annoyed because he doesn’t know him. But I do, I can see the signs. His neck seems to get bigger and grows out over his collar and he stands with his arm crossed over his chest holding his elbow.

But all Gramps says is, ‘Take a seat.’ Flim sits on one of the wooden chairs at the back of the stage.

Gramps says into the microphone. ‘Now, son, stretch out your legs for me.’

Flim does what Gramps says. He stretches out his legs like a plank so everyone can see his shiny yellow socks and brown shoes.

Gramps gives the microphone to Bill and gets hold of both of Flim’s brown shoes from underneath. He starts pushing and pulling, frowning a lot. Bill shoves the microphone between them so we can hear what Gramps is saying.

‘Son, did you know both your legs were of differing lengths?’

Flim stops smiling then. He sits with his eyes popping out, looking at his feet as if he’s seen the most amazing sight.

Bill holds the microphone so we can hear the answer.

‘No, sir. I did not. I did not know that at all.’

Gramps looks up at the ceiling, with one of Flim’s feet in each hand, and I can see his lips moving. At last he jumps up and throws his arms wide in a big ta-da and grabs the microphone back off Bill.

‘Stand, Flim, stand.’

Flim does, slowly, and there’s a great big smile covering his face. But when Gramps holds out the microphone to him he sounds like he’s crying.

‘Thank you, thank the Lord,’ he’s crying into the
microphone. And then it seems to get too much for him and he covers his head over with his hands and runs off the stage.

Then something happens that makes me properly jump so my hand flies out of Melody’s. The man in front of me with the blue shirt he’s sweated into falls onto the carpet in the middle. His chins wobble and he opens his mouth and this comes out of it: ‘Zoolawellatenchingfunkallahshoma.’

Nobody else takes any notice. Nobody says, ‘Perhaps we’d better call an ambulance for this poor man.’ They carry on shouting out and clapping as if he wasn’t there and getting up out of their seats and moving to the front so I can’t really see much of Gramps any more. The air has started to smell of sweat.

That’s when Dorothy grabs onto my arm.

‘Stop it,’ I say, because I don’t know what she’s doing, but she holds my arm tight and starts pulling me up to the front.

Through the crowd I see Gramps’s face and he’s smiling like I’ve never seen him smile before. All his teeth are showing and his face has gone pale red as he reaches out and puts his hand on a woman’s head. She’s thin with a long blue dress and masses of tiny curls that spring straight out of her head and Gramps has to cram his hand on because the curls try to bounce his hand right off. And I gasp because it’s like a jolt of electricity goes right through her body and it’s coming from Gramps’s hand. She falls down flat on the floor. People stand round, looking at her. They mumble and someone even pokes her but she doesn’t wake up. So two men with sweat on their faces pick her up and carry her off.

I don’t want to be taken up to Gramps so he can make
me fall to the floor. My heart’s ticking very fast under my dress, it feels like it’s gone twice its normal size and it’s pushing right up into my throat. But Dorothy’s got hold of my arm tight with her thin pinchy fingers. She’s much, much stronger than she looks.

Instead she takes me to the side of the stage and a big fat woman in a dress with different-coloured triangles – yellow, pink and blue – fills up my eyes. Then she moves out of the way and there’s a little boy, white and pale, in a wheelchair. He’s tiny, this boy, with little twig legs – his brown trousers look nearly empty he’s so skinny. His white hands rest on green plastic on the arms of the wheelchair. His hair is thin and golden like a baby’s and I don’t think I’ve seen anyone look like they’re going to break so much in my whole life. Even the glass Christmas angels me and Mum used to hang on the tree with gold string looked stronger than he does. Dorothy shoves me right in front of him and he grips onto his arm things and looks up at me with his sweet face.

Dorothy takes hold of both my hands and clamps them round the boy’s head, squashing her own hands over mine, so I’m trapped there.

His skull feels like I’m holding onto an egg. Don’t let me crack it, I think. Don’t let my fingers go through into the runny yolk inside. Dorothy’s boobs are pressing into my back and I can feel her hot breathing through my body. His hair is soft and silky on my fingers and I can feel the shell underneath and for a minute I think I’m going to faint.

Just as I feel I’m going to crash on top of the boy and crush him like a bird’s egg, the noise around me seems to get further away. I open my eyes.

And it’s only me and him. I forget even Dorothy and the
people yelling and crying and the scratchy record. His lips look like they’ve been painted on – dummy in shop window lips – and his face is patient, as if he’s used to having things done to him and not saying anything about it, just having to wait till it’s over. His mouth is moving and I think he’s trying to say something to me so I lean in but in my ear all there is is a shush, shush sound coming out of his mouth.

‘What is it?’ I say. ‘Tell me.’

‘Shush, shush, shush.’

What I’d really like to do is take him away from in here, wheel him outside into the sun so we can sit together and look out from the hill. I think he’d like that a lot more than being in here.

Gramps has appeared behind the wheelchair now.

Dorothy yanks my hands away off his head. She holds out my arms, her fingers tight round my wrists, so I’m opened up like she’s showing me around.

Gramps leans over the boy from behind and booms at him. ‘Look. See here. Now stand, boy, stand.’

Nothing happens for a minute, then the boy tries to move his twig legs and they tremble and shake.

‘Stand, boy. Stand,’ Gramps yells at him.

The little boy’s really trying. He grips onto the green plastic arms of his wheelchair with both hands and goes even whiter than before.

‘Yes. That’s it – see. See how the boy is nearly standing.’ Gramps does his funny little dance on the spot behind the wheelchair.

The boy manages to push himself a tiny bit more up out of the chair. His whole body is shaking and there’s sweat on his eyelids. A crowd’s gathering round to watch.

‘Stop it,’ I shout. ‘Stop trying to make him.’

But they don’t, they probably can’t even hear my voice over the noise. What they want is for the boy to stand up and walk across the room and for everyone to be amazed. They keep telling him to stand up, telling him he’s better. In the end I don’t watch any more. I can’t use my hands to cover up my eyes because of Dorothy holding me so I turn my head away. When I look back again the boy has gone.

As soon as Dorothy lets go I wriggle away to the door and take big deep gulps of fresh air.

Outside the white church it’s still loud, like there’s a storm happening inside. I put my hands over my ears.

‘Where you going, child?’ I hear Dorothy calling. I look back, she’s leaning against the door.

‘For a walk.’

Over the fields, it’s yellow, yellow, yellow for miles and a plane in the sky.

‘Don’t go too far now.’

The shadow of wings moves over the yellow, getting bigger until it falls over me, cold and dark.

‘D’you hear me?’

I’m remembering something.

A little window and engines roaring. A woman, with a tiny doll’s hat sitting on her head. I’m wondering how it stays there it’s so small. She’s got a waistcoat with a silver badge on it. Her name’s on the badge: Shelley. She’s leaning down, her face is soft and pretty with shiny pale pink lipstick, and she’s saying, ‘Hey, is she OK?’ And Gramps, he’s sitting next to me and he gives her a great big smile. ‘She’s fine – not feeling quite herself is all.’ But the lady doesn’t seem sure about this and she leans in closer. ‘Can I get you
anything? Some water, what about a Coke? Would you like some Coca-Cola, sweetheart?’