The Light of Amsterdam (12 page)

She heard Shannon bubbling her excitement down the phone and did her best to share in it but the worry about money got in the way and she felt, too, an increasing frustration that so much of her daughter's own wages were squandered on things that had so little value. Her eyes caught the sheaf of papers that Mrs Hemmings had given her and picking them up she flicked through them but none held any meaning. What did Rembrandt or some painting mean to her? Anyway she would be lucky if she saw much more than the inside of some clubs or bars and, when she realised that, she felt again the pointlessness of the choice and the money wasted on a journey abroad. She sighed too when she thought of how she would have to look at the pages in more detail to be able to lie to Hemmings and make her believe that she had at least seen some of the suggested sights. It was true that she did harbour some curiosity about what it would be like to be in a foreign country but it faded when measured against the hassle of having to get a passport and money changed, and nothing that it could possibly offer would ever compensate for having to get into an aeroplane. She tried not to think about it but was unable to block out recurring images of the plane suddenly plunging out of the sky – it seemed to her to be totally impossible that something made from material as heavy as metal should ever be able to rise from the ground and hold itself aloft.

Shannon's voice was lilting and singing, sometimes giving little squeals of pleasure at what was being said, but as the call dragged on she thought only of its cost and despite her reluctance to feel mean couldn't help comparing it with her own purely functional use of the phone. She lay down on the bed and tried to curl herself into a little calm. Her fingers traced the cheap beadwork that felt as if it could all fall off at the first excuse and wondered how she was going to go to the airport dressed like this, only comforting herself by the belief that at that time of year she wasn't likely to bump into anyone who knew her. Lisa and Pat would think it all a good laugh and she understood she'd have to provide them with every gory detail of the trip and if it proved too uneventful, just as for Mrs Hemmings, she'd have to make stuff up. They'd wound her up about smoking dope and she'd countered that the candle table decorations for the wedding had already seen enough money go up in smoke without wasting more. Then she felt a little ashamed that she hadn't invited either of them to the wedding and had got herself in a state where she couldn't think of any guest except through the price being charged per head. But it was true as well that she was nervous about Lisa getting a few drinks in her and letting herself down as she had at last year's Christmas party. She wanted her daughter's wedding to be classy and dignified so she wasn't going to risk Lisa which meant she couldn't ask Pat. Mostly on her side it was just going to be Shannon's friends and then more people could come to the disco afterwards if they wanted. She looked again at the Indian dress and wondered if the outfit she had bought for the wedding was good enough. She hadn't shown it to Shannon yet and was nervous she might think it wasn't up to the mark. It was out of Marks & Spencer so there was still time for her to change it if it wasn't all right. Eventually she heard her daughter put the phone down and wondered if this was the right moment to show her but the possibility of it being criticised made her reluctant and happier to postpone it.

‘Mum, don't get your dress creased,' Shannon said, and she got off the bed like a child who had been caught doing something wrong.

‘It's fine. I'll hang it up in a minute.'

‘You have to look your best for this weekend. I don't want you letting yourself down.'

So now her daughter was speaking to her as if the parent–child roles had been reversed and the irony of it irritated her. Then Shannon saw the printouts on the bed and lifted them before she could stop her.

‘What's all this?' she said, scanning the pages.

‘Just some stuff somebody gave me, stuff to go and see.'

‘Mum, you're going on a hen party, you won't have time to go and look at this sort of thing. You'll be too busy having a good time to bother about all this and it looks a right bore anyway.' Dropping the pages dismissively on the bed she admired herself in her costume again. ‘Are you sure this is a good fit?'

‘It's perfect. You'd think it had been made for you.' She said the words as if from a script memorised through constant use. Then as her daughter changed her viewing angles she sat on the edge of the bed and watched her.

‘Mum, will you check with the florist again today that the flowers are going to be right, that they've got the right colours? And the photographer – we still need to choose the album style. Can you phone him and ask when we can see them and make a final choice?'

The list grew longer by the day. She was growing a little weary of it and as soon as one thing was sorted something else sprang up. But she assured her that everything would be done and then as Shannon was about to go to her room and take off her costume, on impulse she asked her to wait a moment.

‘Sit here a minute,' she said, patting the edge of the bed. ‘I want to talk to you.'

‘What about?' Shannon asked suspiciously as with an air of reluctance she joined her.

‘Getting married is a big commitment and I just want to know that you're sure about everything. It's easy to get wrapped up in all the stuff that goes with a wedding and forget what you're actually signing up to.'

‘Signing up to? You make it sound like we're going to war.'

‘Well I could think of a few who would probably describe where they ended up as not far from it.'

‘So, Mum, what is it you want to say?'

The impatience in her daughter's voice made her uncertain of the way forward but she rested her hand on her shoulder and asked, ‘Are you sure about Wade?'

‘Of course I'm sure – I wouldn't be marrying him if I wasn't sure. And you like him, don't you? You like Wade?'

‘Of course I like him.' She wasn't sure how many lies or half-truths she had to give in exchange for one expression that revealed the truth of what she felt. ‘And you're sure he'll look after you, keep you in the style you're used to?' Her attempt to leaven it with lightness felt as if it had missed the mark.

‘He better do or he'll have me to answer to. Wade's a walkover – he does what he's told, Mum. There isn't anything to worry about.'

She wanted to tell her that with men there was always something to worry about but instead she reached her arm across her daughter's shoulder and pulled her close for a moment.

‘Watch my dress.'

‘Sorry. Go and take it off.'

‘Do you think you could take the hem up a bit – just a temporary job?'

‘Shannon, is it not short enough? You don't want to be coming home with a cold.'

‘Just a couple of inches,' and she did her pleading little-girl voice.

‘If I have to.'

Her daughter pecked her on the side of the head and then hurried off to her room, all her giddy movements sparked by her excitement. When she had gone she quietly pushed the bedroom door closed, then slipped off her own costume and put it on a hanger. She would shorten her daughter's dress and then secretly try to lengthen her own. When she placed it in the wardrobe her eyes focused on the suit she had bought to wear to the wedding, and touching it lightly she told herself that it would do the job, then turning back to the bed gathered the pages Hemmings had given her and stored them safely in a bedside drawer. As she moved across the room her eyes caught the ghost of her reflection in the mirror and for a second standing in her underwear and with feathers in her hair she wondered what she had seen.

Six

As he parked outside the house he saw that the door was already partly opened in anticipation of his arrival but sensed that it was not an invitation to enter, so much as a means to aid a quick departure, and he was disappointed because he felt that this might have been an opportunity to achieve, if not a moment of intimacy, then at least a brief expression of shared parenthood, an affinity of sorts. He was taking Jack to Amsterdam, he was helping her out, even though it meant she was flying to Spain with Gordon. So it seemed like another small incremental step on his slow road to atonement and everything would be better for him if he were to receive even the briefest, most cursory recognition of his penance. And now Susan stood in the open doorway and as she turned her gaze back into the house without any acknowledgement he knew she was summoning Jack, packing him off to allow her to pursue some dream of another life in which he would presumably play no part.

She finally gave him a perfunctory wave but just as he was pondering whether to get out of the car Jack appeared wrestling a black plastic sports bag over his shoulder. He unwound the window as she went to kiss their son who didn't turn his face to her and so she ended up kissing the back of his head.

‘All right?' he asked.

She nodded her answer and then he felt her hand resting lightly on top of his. There was still a pale groove where her wedding ring once was which he knew would fade completely in a little while.

‘Thanks,' she said, ‘thanks for taking Jack. I'm sure you'll have a great time and I'll be here when you get back.' Then moving her hand she lowered her head level with the window to ask Jack if he had remembered to lift his passport from the hall table.

‘Yes,' he said, without looking at her, his voice layered with undisguised exasperation.

‘Well, good luck,' she said, patting his hand again, and when he smiled up at her she rolled her eyes as if to say that he would need it, and as he started the engine he glanced once more at her but her face was closed and, despite his years of experience, he was unable to discern what she was thinking. So as he drove away he tried to hold her reflection in his side mirror and read what, if anything, was in her touch. He knew that he could still feel something in the sudden shock of that brief moment but didn't know whether it should bring him comfort or continued pain.

‘So, Jack, you looking forward to seeing Amsterdam?'

‘I'm not a child – I could look after myself for a weekend. I'm sixteen. I'm not afraid of the dark or anything.'

‘No you're not a child, Jack, just a complete asshole who doesn't know how to take a mother's kiss,' he wanted to say but instead turned to look at his weekend companion. The hair was black, black as can come out of a bottle, and it made the paleness of his skin look like it had been pressed from snow. Snow that was cold and frosted. The hair was in a new style – bunched up and then slipping sideways as if a black ice-cream cone starting to melt. One thick strand curled like a question mark across the corner of his eye. There was something about him that smelled musty.

‘I know you're not, I know you can look after yourself, but we're doing this for your mother.' This part was all right but then he heard himself say, ‘It's important to keep her happy.' He pretended to concentrate on his driving and as Jack turned slowly towards him with scorn, he knew he'd just offered him the chance to stick a knife in his side. He winced silently as he anticipated the pierce of its words but his son's head returned again to stare out the side window, his hands momentarily raised to his ears as if he was posing for
The Scream
.

The only sounds were the hiss of his MP3 and the click of his fingers as he texted on his mobile phone. All the way to the airport. Just hiss and click. After a while he didn't mind any more because it took away the pressure of conversation and avoided the possibility of using up all the topics he had garnered in his head as potential connectors for the weekend. But the supposed connectors of flesh and gene – were these just biological figments of the imagination? Was there an inescapable and eternal bond that wasn't the product of DNA profiles? If it didn't exist, could parents and their children come to mutual agreements and advertise for replacements in the Get Connected pages of the
Belfast Telegraph
? And yes he was already becoming familiar with the syntax, their acronyms and their codes, their GSOHs, initially telling himself that it was merely the product of prurient amusement but already knowing that his sense of superiority was gradually eroding to be replaced by some deeper curiosity. And words that had started to hold the promise of some future connection weren't entirely unpleasant. But perhaps in the future it would be possible to advertise a swap for your biological offspring for what might be better suited. How would it go? He penned it as he drove. ‘Wanted: house-trained adolescent, no substance abuse, good academic ability, capacity to converse and socially engage. Ability to generate simple pleasure, and occasionally joy, essential.'

‘So what do you think, Jack?' he asked quietly without taking his eyes from the road. ‘You must think you could do better for a father, and maybe you could. So what would you ask for?'

But the only answer was the hiss and click of his son's fingers pecking the keys, sending messages through time and space. He imagined his conversation was with Jasmine – a curiously sweet-scented name for a girl whose appearance seemed to be designed to frighten, in her exotic and strange hybrid of retro-punk and Goth. How she must hate her name and he had already heard Jack refer to her as Jas. Jack and Jas go up a hill and do whatever they do but he can't imagine them even kissing. So what was being said now in this stream of truncated, abbreviated textspeak that winged its way through the ether?