The Museum of You Page 11

  She flashes Jim a huge smile and Darren loves her for it, for everything.

  Jim hardly touches his tea and he won’t stay and watch telly or play on the Wii afterwards, even though he doesn’t have to be anywhere. Darren gives him a pack of batteries for his remote and stands at the door, waving him off, watching as he strides out of The Grove and heads down the main road towards town.

  Most of Jim’s tea ends up in the food recycling bin. What a waste. What a git. Still, he came, didn’t he? He’s not well, but he walked over and tried to eat with them.

  ‘When Uncle Jim’s not himself, it’s not really him, it’s just something that happens to him,’ he reminds Clover as she waits, tea towel at the ready. ‘Things’ll carry on like this for a bit and then, well . . .’ He raises his arms and makes a you-know-what-comes-next gesture. ‘And after he comes out of hospital he’ll be better for a while. Snakes and ladders, eh?’

  ‘We should be nicer to him,’ she says.

  ‘We are nice to him.’

  ‘Nice-er. Friendlier.’

  ‘Your Uncle Jim and me aren’t really friends. Don’t pull faces! I bet there’s loads of people at school who aren’t your friends – it doesn’t mean you don’t like them, it’s just that they’re . . . they’re not like you.’

  ‘Colin’s not like you.’

  She’s got him there. He slides the plates into the sink and tries again. ‘Your Uncle Jim and me put up with each other because of your mother.’

  Clover goes very still, as she does whenever he mentions Becky. It’s like watching the hackles rise on an animal and he immediately regrets bringing her up.

  ‘You know that “Happy” song? I heard it on the radio again this morning. When we’ve finished the dishes I’ll get online and see if anyone’s done the chords. That’ll be fun, won’t it?’ he says.

  She agrees, and he hums the tune as he scrubs melted cheese off the plates. The kitchen is hot. But it smells of cheese and bacon. And it sounds like happiness.

  Exhibit: ‘Becky Brookfield – the Untold Story’

  Catalogue

  Object: Baby teeth.

  Description: A resealable envelope containing several baby teeth.

  Item Number: 6.

  Provenance: I think these belong to Becky Brookfield (my mother). It’s possible they belong to Darren Quinn (my dad), but that’s not the feeling I get when I hold them. I think they contain DNA, but I don’t know how to get them tested (Jeremy Kyle could do it, but we’d have to go on the telly and have a big fight). Becky Brookfield’s mother (Nanna Maureen) must have kept the teeth when she was being the tooth fairy.

  Display: Either in the original resealable envelope (which might stop being sticky if opened too many times) or in a tiny Tupperware container (plenty in the kitchen).

  Curator: Clover Quinn.

  Keeper: Darren Quinn.

  7

  ‘THERE YOU ARE.’

  Clover jumps.

  ‘You were JUST ABOUT TO GO, weren’t you? Did I give you a FRIGHT?’

  ‘Yes!’ She leans her bike back up against the house and turns to face Mrs Mackerel.

  ‘I’ve been WATCHING. I was SLOTHING from the WINDOW.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Off to the ALLOTMENT?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘THIS AFTERNOOON you can bring that SCARF you’re SUPPOSED TO BE KNITTING. Your AUNTY PEARL’S coming.’

  ‘But, I –’

  ‘I got some RIBENA in, SPECIALLY.’

  ‘Oh. But I . . .’

  ‘NO, I won’t be FLOGGED OFF.’ Mrs Mackerel steps back inside her porch and calls, ‘SEE YOU LATER,’ which makes Clover think of Uncle Jim, who, when he is himself, likes to say, ‘See you later, terminator’ and ‘See you later, percolator.’ He uses every kind of ‘ator’ he can come up with: elevator, calculator, navigator, and, if he is feeling particularly cheerful, mashed pota-tor.

  *

  She returns from the allotment with one bag of new potatoes and another of runner beans. She dumps the bags in the sink and leaves the kettle to boil while she fetches the beginnings of Dad’s scarf from her room. So far there are two stripes of blue and two of white. That’s all. Yikes! There’s going to be trouble. She sips her tea and dunks her biscuit before starting the next section of the scarf. Knit one, purl one, knit one, purl one.

  Mrs Mackerel won’t open the windows in case an insect breaks in. It’s so hot that the carpet is practically cooking and it smells like slippers and dust. The party hasn’t moved to the conservatory yet. The orange squash rests on the floor beside the armchair, and the gin bottle sits on the mantelpiece among the cottage ornaments, like an alcoholic lighthouse. Mrs Mackerel follows Clover’s gaze.

  ‘NOT FOR YOU, MISSY. We’ll keep you on the RIGHT AND NARROW until you’re older.’

  Clover has no interest in it: it smells disgusting, like disinfectant. She fetches the carton of Ribena from the fridge, and when she comes back Mrs Mackerel examines the scarf, squeezing its thickness between finger and thumb.

  ‘You’ve been WEAVING IN when you CHANGE COLOURS?’

  She nods. Of course she has! You can’t knit an entire Doctor Who scarf if you don’t know how to change colours properly. But there’s no point in saying anything: this exchange is for Mrs Knight’s benefit – she can’t knit.

  ‘Not got VERY FAR, have you?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Better HURRY UP.’

  Clover sucks Ribena through the tiny straw, careful not to show Mrs Mackerel up by slurping. Although she has more important things to do, it’s actually quite nice to be invited to attend the event that used to be the best bit of her week in holidays past. There is a new fun in being here in a different way, as a guest, who can, she hopes, get up and leave at any time. Sitting on the turquoise, rose-spattered two-seater, she feels magnanimous and benevolent.

  Mrs Knight complains that it’s very hot. She usually sits outside in the afternoons. For the fresh air.

  ‘Yes, and THAT’S why you look like a RAISIN, Pearl.’

  ‘I haven’t been well. I’ve had a funny tummy.’

  ‘ARE YOU EATING?’ Mrs Mackerel eyes Mrs Knight’s glass, which is already half empty.

  Mrs Knight notices and tightens her grip. ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘WHAT?’

  ‘Soup.’

  ‘That’ll go STRAIGHT THROUGH YOU. What you want is a SLICE of DRY TOAST to CLEAN your DIGESTIVE TRACK.’

  ‘How does that work, Edna?’

  ‘THE CRUSTS.’

  ‘Ah.’

  Mrs Knight sips her drink and melts into the middle of the three-seater while Mrs Mackerel rehashes a well-worn moan about the charity shops on Lord Street.

  ‘The place is going to HELL in a HANDBAG,’ she says.

  Mrs Knight explains that the state of Lord Street doesn’t matter if, like her, you’ve got a nice daughter round the corner who can buy you things from the internet and arrange for them to be delivered straight to your door. A nice daughter can source peach toilet paper to match your bathroom suite, instead of the boring white stuff that’s everywhere nowadays.

  Of course, Mrs Mackerel hasn’t got a nice daughter round the corner. Her sons live in Australia, Hong Kong, California and Glasgow. They are ungrateful toads, and they don’t send her things from the internet.

  ‘YOU’RE A MEMBER OF THE INTERNET, AREN’T YOU, CLOVER? You’ve got ALL THE MODS AND CONS, haven’t you?’

  Clover nods.

  ‘SEE?’ she says, as if she has proved something.

  ‘You should try Liverpool,’ Mrs Knight says. ‘The shops are lovely.’

  ‘Oh, we’ve DONE THAT, haven’t we?’

  It’s true, they have, despite the fact that Mrs Mackerel doesn’t hold with Liverpool – she doesn’t hold with Birkdale or Ainsdale or Formby or Crosby or any of the places on the way to Liverpool either, but especially not Liverpool, which is where cars have their tyres nicked and people get stabbed. One day last summer, the two
of them went together. They used their passes, Mrs Mackerel’s older person’s pass and Clover’s family pass, to catch the bus to Lord Street, and from there they caught the 47. Dad’s 47. Mrs Mackerel was adamant. She had never been on one of Dad’s buses. It was a ONCE IN A LIFETIME experience, she said. They stayed on the 47 all the way to Liverpool and back. Mrs Mackerel picked the closest seat to Dad, the special high one for disabled passengers. People got on with sticks and walking frames, but no one asked her to move, because she’s old. She sat there, like a queen on a throne, pop-socked legs dangling, and cupped her hand around her mouth as she said things like, ‘YOU WEREN’T EXPECTING THIS, WERE YOU, DARREN?’ and ‘It’s SO NICE to see you being the CAPTAIN OF THE BUS.’ Dad didn’t reply. He’s not supposed to talk to people while he’s driving. But the back of his neck went all pink and sticky, like a slice of bacon.

  ‘Don’t let her do that again,’ he said afterwards.

  ‘I can’t stop her!’

  He made a noise like the whoosh of the bus doors and pointed at an imaginary Mrs Mackerel. ‘You. Shall. Not. Pass,’ he said, and they both laughed.

  ‘Try Liverpool again, Edna,’ Mrs Knight suggests.

  ‘It is quite nice, you know,’ Clover says. ‘It’s better if you get off the bus and have a look around. There’s loads of shops – big versions of the ones we’ve got, and posh ones like John Lewis where ties cost fifty quid.’

  ‘They NEVER DO!’

  ‘Honest. We bought one for Grandad for Christmas. He put it in the wash and it fell to pieces.’

  ‘NO!’

  ‘It was silk.’

  ‘Well, that’s Liverpool for you.’ she says. ‘You can’t make a SILK EAR out of a SOW’S PURSE.’

  ‘And how are your boys, Edna?’ Mrs Knight asks, half hoping, it seems, for another opportunity to talk about her daughter.

  But it turns out that Mrs Mackerel has some news about her oldest son, Thomas, the one who is BIG DOWN UNDER.

  ‘Very big down under?’ Mrs Knight asks, emptying her glass and smothering a giggle.

  Mrs Mackerel explains that Thomas has, once again, God love him, invited her to visit him in Australia. This means she will spend the next month or two asking everyone’s advice, before deciding not to go.

  ‘He can’t HONESTLY expect me to travel ALL THAT WAY. What do YOU think, Pearl?’

  ‘Well, I’ve always liked Neighbours.’

  ‘It’s such a LONG JOURNEY.’

  ‘Australia,’ Mrs Knight says, in a strange, high voice.

  ‘TWENTY-TWO HOURS.’

  ‘Hel-lo, possums.’

  ‘You have to wear those SPECIAL STOCKINGS.’

  ‘G’day, darling.’

  ‘ARE YOU LISTENING, PEARL?’

  ‘Of course,’ Mrs Knight says, and then she toasts Mrs Mackerel with her empty glass and sings, ‘Waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda, you’ll come a-waltzing Matilda with me –’

  ‘You’re CERTAINLY not going to WIN ANY PRIZES for your IMPERSONATIONS. Or YOUR SINGING.’

  ‘Fair dinkum.’

  ‘If I get there in ONE PIECE, it’ll be like that programme with ANTON DECK. I’ll be up against the GIANT SPIDERS. And the SNAKES. And the SHARKS.’

  Mrs Knight pours another gin and adds a shot of squash. ‘But would you be going swimming, Edna? Would you really?’

  ‘I MIGHT.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ Clover asks, not at all convinced. ‘In the sea?’

  ‘WHY NOT? I’ve got ALL MY FACILITIES.’

  ‘But what if you died, Edna? What if a snake bit you? Or a shark ate your leg? It costs a fortune to fly bodies around. They might have to bury you there. In Australia,’ she does the funny voice again. ‘In Australian ground; your bones forever covered in Australian soil –’

  ‘I GET THE MESSAGE.’

  ‘It all sounds far too dangerous to me. You’re right, I really think you should stay at home, with us. Where it’s safe.’

  Mrs Mackerel beams. ‘I EXPECT I’LL GO.’

  When the two women get up to go into the conservatory, Clover excuses herself. ‘I’ll go home and do some more of my scarf,’ she says, before pausing in the doorway to add, ‘I think you should go to Australia. If I was your son, I’d want to see –’

  ‘LOOK AT YOU,’ Mrs Mackerel interrupts. ‘So GROWN UP all of a sudden. All that HAIR. You’re the SPLITTING IMAGE OF YOUR MOTHER, God forgive her.’

  Clover nods. Hoping for more.

  ‘And your POOR FATHER – the way he put her on a PEDAL STOOL.’

  She waits, breath piling in her throat.

  ‘Go on, then. OFF YOU GO.’

  Outside, Clover notices that Mrs Mackerel has put her wheelie bin out early, for tomorrow – she always leads the charge. She peeps under its lid as she passes. There’s only one bag inside; loads of space for another. She hurries down the path and unlocks the front door before scrambling up the stairs to fetch the black bag of opened post and envelopes. If she leaves all the rubbish in the second bedroom, it will never look nice. She manoeuvres the bag past the stuff on the stairs and rushes down the driveway to the pavement. Thud goes the bag. Flip goes the bin lid. All gone.

  She heads back to the room feeling lighter, almost feathery. She could float to the ceiling like Jane and Michael in Mary Poppins, inflated by happiness; buoyed by the belief that, in removing extraneous objects, she will more easily find her mother. What’s that saying? You can’t see the wood for the trees. She can’t see her mother for the mess! Volume is not important, what she is looking for is essence, the undiluted bits: a collection of things that will provide her mother’s flavour.

  There are cards. To do with love. Love with a capital ‘L’. Epic love. Like in Romeo and Juliet, which she hasn’t done yet in English, but she’s heard of it – who hasn’t? Romeo, Romeo, where are you, Romeo? The love cards are covered in hearts and teddy bears and flowers, with really soppy words written in them. Imagine getting that soppy about someone, so soppy that you’d write all those unguarded things, leave yourself completely defenceless, like a snail without a shell. She pops downstairs for another piece of MDF, aware that she must be very careful – these cards are a part of history in ways that the holiday brochures were not.

  Three of the cards are birthday cards from Dad to her mother – that’s all they had together, just three birthdays.

  When you stepped on to my bus and into my life it was the BEST day ever xxxxxxxx.

  I love you babe, you’re amazing xxxxxxxx.

  Love you loads and loads xxxxxxxx.

  She won’t cut them. Instead, she uses Blu-Tack to stick them to the board. She will make a big heart and colour it with her special-occasion Sharpies. Then she will place it in the middle of the display.

  There are several piles of books. Romance ones. She sits cross-legged and flicks through the pages, looking for rude bits and dying, literally, when she discovers them.

  Jed’s mouth captured hers in a tender kiss. He drew a ragged breath, before claiming her lips again. ‘Are you taking your contraceptive pill?’ he husked.

  ‘Yes, baby,’ she said, clinging to his solid arms.

  ‘Good,’ he replied, melting her bones with his crooked grin.

  ‘I love you, Ruby,’ Clint murmured, his voice gravelled, desperate.

  Ruby’s belly clenched. ‘I love you too, Clint.’

  ‘Ruby!’ A growl escaped his lips.

  ‘Clint!’ She gazed at the most male part of him, longing to feel it inside her.

  ‘We’re different people from ten years ago. If I’d only told you I loved you,’ Belinda cried.

  They were both free of other responsibilities. It was time for the loneliness to end. Silence settled, like snow.

  ‘Say you love me now,’ Cole said finally, lowering his lips to hers.

  She peels off the gloves, cheeks flaming, hands sweaty. Love is very embarrassing. She stuffs the books into a bin bag, one after another, after another; every pink and purple and red
cover; all the glistening men with bulging muscles and the pretty, wide-eyed ladies with big boobs – bosoms, even. There. That’s the lot. It’s a good job Dad isn’t a crooked-grin, gravelled-voiced sort of man. Even if he was, there’s no one who’d like him to melt their bones.

  Except Kelly – the thought pops up like a little jack-in-a-box. Ta-dah! Kelly – oh.

  Clover leans against the bed and replays the other evening. Kelly holding Dad’s shoulder as she slid her feet out of her shoes. Kelly sitting beside him after she’d been outside for her cheeky ciggie, thigh pressed right up against his, even though they weren’t short of space. Kelly turning to smile at him in the car on the way home when she should have been watching the road, et cetera, et cetera. Yikes. But Kelly is not a crying, clinging, belly-clenching woman with enormous boobs. She’s a let’s-do-something-fun, the-boys-think-you’re-great, would-you-like-a-free-haircut sort of woman. Which is different. Isn’t it? And not so bad, maybe.

  *

  She finds the article under a pile of towels while ‘Seasons in the Sun’ leaks through the portable CD player’s funny headphones. The towels are ordinary, pink and blue and green, different sizes. She opens each towel and refolds it neatly, and that’s when she finds the sheet of newspaper, folded into four. It has been out of the light, so it’s not faded or anything, just very creased along the folds, like a napkin or a new shirt.

  SPECIAL DELIVERY FOR EDNA!

  When a local pensioner set out to investigate a strange noise she got more than she bargained for. Intrepid Edna Mackerel discovered her next-door neighbour giving birth in the kitchen.

  Mother-of-four, Edna is no novice when it comes to childbirth, but she admitted that this was the first time she’d been on the receiving end. Brave Edna delivered her neighbour’s baby and called an ambulance. ‘I just did what anyone would have done,’ she confessed modestly.

  It wasn’t just the venue of the baby’s arrival that was surprising. ‘I didn’t know she was having a baby, and neither did she,’ Edna revealed. ‘You don’t believe someone could be pregnant and not realise. But now I’ve seen it with my very own eyes.’