Short story extract 3: 'For now, love, let's be real...'

Chapter 3

‘For now, love, let’s be real…’

☾⋆

I watch my father’s determined stumble to the booth, where the barman is fiddling woozily with microphones and blue wires.

 ‘I think your dad’s going to sing’, slurs Katie – pissed – from behind me.

‘Mmm,’ I return, not bothering to look round.

‘Do you think he’ll do Back for Good?’ She snorts. This does not warrant a reply.

‘Or Nothing Comp—‘

She’s cut off by the blast of feedback as he takes to the stage, red-banded mic in hand.

Script note: no direction required. Allow the actor to interpret the scene howsoever he chooses.

‘Right, I’m doing one,’ Dad slurs presently, whisky in hand. A bray from the crowd; languid cackles and shouts of ‘remember to switch the mic on’ are met with laughs far beyond their worth. Dad ignores them, dead set.

‘Aye… this is a good one.’

Something about his subtle-yet-firm signal to the barman tells me he means business. For one heart-stopping moment I wonder if he actually is going to go down the Sinead O’Connor route. A disturbing, unbidden thought of his face super-imposed over hers in that iconic video... It's been seven hours and sixteen days... give or take a couple of weeks. But now, a familiarly solemn guitar intro drifts over the speakers, followed by my father’s gristly, strangely tuneful tones.

‘If you could read my mind, love, what a tale my thoughts could tell…’

‘Sounds a bit like Kenny Rogers,’ offers Tommy, somewhat prematurely.

            I stare at Dad as though hypnotised, until Tommy’s voice and the beige interiors of the pub have faded completely. I remember…

Me. Little and fluffy-haired, my head against Mum’s cardigan’d chest. This song burbled gently in the background, my eyes tired but bright as she read from a picture book. Then, years later, the same melody played as part of a cooking compilation, in the days when CDs were new and full of wonder. Dad was shrouded in the smoke and fragrances of the kitchen, singing along, as Mum flitted in and out, barefoot.

‘Enter, Number 2: A  movie queen to play the scene of bringing all the good things out in me… but for now, love, let’s be real…’

Mum always avoided the steam from the kettle. It used to frizz her hair. Sometimes, Dad would pull her to him, smoothing down the blossoming curls at her temples with his hands. Then he would lean in for a kiss, and she would giggle, and duck away from him.

‘Shall we try that again, Jean?’ he’d tease. ‘From the top? Take 2? Yes, I think so. Once more with feeling, please.’

When I was very young, the images of the song held a childlike wonder: the dark castle, the ghost from a wishing well… heroes and old-time film stars. To me, it was a straightforward fairytale, untainted by analogy or implication. With hindsight, it seems vaguely ominous that even in the throes of marital bliss, my parents were infatuated by a song that dealt with the dull pain of divorce.

‘He pissed?’ asks Robbie unhelpfully, snapping me back into the present.

I say nothing. Robbie stands beside me in silence, surveying the performance with an irritatingly unreadable expression. Presently, Dad sits forward on his stool, affecting a Southern drawl and misty-eyed expression for the final lines.

‘I don't know where we went wrong,

But the feeling’s gone,

And I just can't get it back...'

His voice wobbles on the final few words, and is lost altogether in a shower of newly-nervous applause. I look around the room. Lots of heads are swivelling as they try to locate Mum in the audience. I watch their faces as the penny collectively drops.

Rita, our MC for the evening, takes the stage as Dad stumbles down. She catches my eye briefly before speaking.

‘Well. Wasn’t that a great number from Al, there? Fabulous stuff.’

‘Mum, doing her best Smooth Radio DJ impression,’ murmurs Robbie to Suzy. She giggles. I glance at Katie, who’s looking sheepish. She points at the door.

Before we can slip out unnoticed, Dad catches me at the bar.

            ‘Janey! How did you like your old dad’s song? A classic, eh?’

            I look at his round, red face; the blind eagerness in his eyes. I think of Mum’s spontaneous trip to Portugal with her girlfriends. At this moment, I want to be away from him too; as far away as possible. For the first time in my life, I want to hurt him. He looks at me, surprised at my silence.

            ‘Well, I’d better help Tommy with his number. He’s doing his Elvis, of course. See you at home?’

            ‘No, Dad. I’m staying with Katie this week.’

            Dad falters. For a moment, I think he’s going to object. Instead, he manufactures a twinkly smile.

            ‘Right then, girls! Enjoy. I’ll see you soon, Janey.’

            He bustles back into the crowd, two doubles in hand. Katie takes my arm.

            ‘Come on then.’

Back in her room, Katie tries to cheer me up with Dawsons Creek re-runs and a warm bottle of rosé, but I am monosyllabic, and after a while she leaves me to it. I gaze at the ceiling, letting the muted sounds of the telly wash over me until I fall asleep. Sometime in the wee small hours, I awake to an inky dark room. The faint rumble of traffic is punctuated by the whoosh of Katie’s soft snoring, in and out, like a gentle tide. Thirsty and disorientated, I slip out of bed.

The hallway is deep blue with shadow, lit only by a shaft of moonlight leaking in through a small, circular skylight above my head. When I was young, I was fascinated by this peephole to the trees and purple stars. I gaze up at it for a moment, before a noise behind me makes me jump.

Robbie stands at the top of the stairs, his shiny hair messier than usual, sticking up dramatically at the back.

‘Hello,’ I whisper. ‘Did you just get home?’

‘Nah, been home for ages. Mum and Suzy stayed… They were on a roll with Dolly Parton. Thought I’d leave them to it.’

‘Ah. Sorry, I just needed to get some water. Did I wake you up?’

‘No, I was up. Jerry.’ He gestures to the little grey dog with his foot.

'Why's he called Jerry?'

‘He's a Springer spaniel.'

‘Oh right… Should have got a Cocker. Then you could have called it Jarvis.'

‘Yeah. That would have been better.'

‘Yeah.’

A branch scratches against the oval window above his head, the moon flitting in and out of view behind it. 

Maybe it’s the silence of the house, or something to do with the way the light falls over Robbie’s face, but suddenly I feel relaxed and calm in his company; the gaucheness of this morning’s exchange in the kitchen mercifully evaporated.

'I used to love that window,’ I tell him. ‘Looking out of it, I mean. At night'

Robbie turns round to look properly, rubbing the back of his neck.

'Yeah, I remember that. You'd sit in the middle of the hall and everyone would trip over you.'

‘It was only you that tripped over me because you were galumphing about like a bloody boy and not looking where you were going. You were like something out of a Robinsons barley water advert,' I tell him indignantly.

‘That's normal boy stuff, though. You were—’

‘What? Abnormal?’

‘It was sort of normal until you started serenading the moon.’

‘Get lost—’

‘You did. In a strange, high-pitched squeal. Sitting there in the middle of the hall staring up at a window singing about the moon. Nutcase.’

He looks at me like I’m an alien. But his eyes are crinkled, and I feel like a nice alien. An alien that he’s actually quite fond of.

I wonder how Suzy feels when he looks at her. I doubt aliens are involved at all.

‘Come in here a minute,’ says Robbie after a pause, motioning to his bedroom door.

I pull my cardigan around myself like a fluffy shield, and watch him as he opens the door wider to let me into his bedroom. Robbie reads the look on my face and rubs his hair again.

            ‘Just for a sec. So I can talk to you.’

I do as I’m told. He closes the door gently behind me and I hesitate, unsure where to put myself. He begins to clear large piles of books and clothes from his bed while I gaze around. Rita has kept his room the way it was when he lived here; the same glow-in-the-dark plastic stars and moons on the slanted ceiling, globules of violet Blu-Tack showing through their centres. Faded grey T-shirts puddle the floorboards, his jeans on the heated radiator, so the air smells of washing powder and something else familiar and Robbie-ish. Only Suzy’s sequinned dress on the hanger indicates that things have moved on.

Robbie allows a final book to slide from his duvet to the floor with a loud clunk, and gestures to the uncluttered space on his bed. I perch on the corner, watching him sink into a frayed chair. A beat before he looks at me. I’m suddenly very aware that I’m not wearing much, and that my eyes are carrying the smudged remains of Rimmel's Granite and Fog.

‘Are you alright?’

            I know what he’s getting at. I look at him questioningly all the same.

            ‘Just… the karaoke thing with your dad. I wondered if you were alright with it.’

            ‘Alright with it?’

            ‘…Yeah,’ he says, embarrassed.

            ‘Would you be alright with it, Robbie?’

            ‘Probably not, no.’

He bites his thumbnail briefly, then rubs his chin with the palm of his hand. I wonder why I sound so angry when I suddenly feel safe and warm. He tries again.

‘He was pissed.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Not that that helps.’

‘No.’

‘I did Sweet Caroline once, when I was pissed. That’s my point.’

‘Sweet Caroline wasn’t the bittersweet soundtrack of your recently-failed marriage though. Was it?’

He sighs, leans back against the desk, and searches the ceiling for inspiration. He hasn’t noticed that I’m smiling.

‘Look, I’m just… He’s having a sort of… Martin-Clunes-does-divorced-dad-for-BBC-2 moment. Going through the motions to see if anything helps. Tonight was just the whisky and singing stage. It won’t last.’

            ‘It’s alright, Robbie. You’re off the hook.’

He looks at me properly, and is relieved enough to show his teeth when he smiles, taking himself by surprise.

            ‘Sorry, that was shit. I’m not really—’

            ‘No. Was good. Thanks... I’m alright.’

Seconds pass, silent. I feel buoyed up by his care for me, as though a fragile, transparent film surrounds us and his bedroom, floating away from the other rooms of the house, the street beyond, the fears of tomorrow. Robbie’s bedroom is a tiny planet, drifting in the gentle night time, with new and delicate rules of gravity. I want to stay here, to hold on tight to the yellow warmth.

Robbie stretches back against his chair. His thin black jumper rises for a second to reveal a sliver of navel. As I watch him, my thoughts are stolen by another memory.

I’m sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor in our old living room, covering my school jotters with wrapping paper. I can just hear the puffs and sighs of Mum’s iron over the radio. The song changes: Natural Woman, by Carole King.

 ‘Listen to this one,’ says Mum.

I pause in my jotter-wrapping, intrigued by the rapt, dreamy look in her eyes as she sings along quietly, fluently.

‘Looking out on the pouring rain, I used to feel uninspired…’

 I listen for a while, before going back to my jotters.

‘Yes, well,’ says Mum. ‘Give it about ten years. You’ll know what she’s on about.’

Presently, Robbie opens his eyes, gazing at the ceiling. I know how I want to thank him. Test these new rules of gravity. Cross the room, settle my body around his on the chair, draw his face to my neck, let my hair fall around him. Let him make me feel graceful. For a second, it feels almost possible. Natural.

He looks at me, worried about my silence. I smile.

‘It’s alright, Robbie. Really. Whatever it is I’m feeling, I’m going to channel it. I’m going to make it into something good.’

He frowns, puzzled.

I close the door softly as I leave.

☾⋆