Kate Hamer - The Girl in the Red Coat

‘The devil has a special place where he makes cosmetics for women to paint their faces. There’s a workshop where demons make lipstick colours and give them names like “Flaming Heart” when the only flaming heart belongs to Jesus.’

Oh Gramps, I think, with your devils like Santa’s elves making presents to tempt ladies with. Besides, that make-up belongs to Munroe’s wife and by saying it’s evil you’re calling her evil. So I say — and I know it’s going to annoy him — ‘Oh, is that right? I thought it was made by L’Oréal.’

And to my surprise Munroe gives a snort of laughter and I think — you like Gramps looking stupid because it makes you feel like you’re on top. Gramps is looking out of the window again and I feel sorry for him, with Munroe in his big house and us with nothing because Gramps is short on how to be in the world. So I sneak my hand under the blanket until I find his and I let it rest there on top of his, that feels all dry and gnarly.

The crowds get thicker walking beside us. In front of us there’s a bus and painted on the back doors of it is a great big cross with flames coming off it.

We park in a special VIP section that’s roped off. Lots of the cars have things painted on the side, like I’ve given my heart to Jesus, have you? — and a picture of a great big heart that’s like a ball of flame. When I see that I have to put my hand to my chest because there’s a burning there too.

I look up to the sky.

It was blue before and now it has gone white. Today is one of those days — like the day of the ditch — where feeling hangs heavy and the air is full of all sorts of stirrings.

Gramps is getting his battered blue sports bag out of the car.

‘I’ve got your dress in here.’

It’s the one I got for my not-real ninth birthday. It was good and big then, like things always were when Dorothy bought them new, but I have to squash myself inside it now. One good thing about Dorothy going — I get to wear jeans again.

‘That old thing.’ I can’t believe he’s dragged that trash here. ‘What d’you bring all that stuff for anyway?’

I’ve seen it, spilling out over the top of the bag, when we were staying with Munroe. My old frilly white dress that looks like an olden-day petticoat. Scarves. The hollowed-out Bible. Stuff from our Dorothy days.

‘You can change before if you like.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ I grumble to myself. Not that they’d hear anyway. They’re both striding ahead pretending to themselves they’re young and full of — what d’you call it? — vigour. They both have on long black coats and Munroe his hat and they take up so much room as they walk through the car park towards the tents people step out of their way. Gramps’s limp is a lot better today, like it always is when he’s excited.

I look to the sky again.

‘What you waitin’ for?’ Munroe is turning back and calling out to me. His smile has gone so I can’t see his big teeth any more. Without them his face is a smooth pink melon with blinking mean eyes.

But I couldn’t even move if I wanted to. The sky is so strangely white and my feet are stuck to the ground. I see a curl of icy breath unfurling and it brushes my face. The white sky thickens and the shadows flicker and in a flash Gramps and Munroe are by my side. In no time. I haven’t had no time for ages. I told Gramps about it in the end and he said it must be after-effects from the drugs I had when I was ill and first came here — but I thought it’d gone away.

‘She does this sometimes.’ Gramps is grunting and kneeling painfully on the floor trying to shift my feet by the ankles. ‘S’OK. It doesn’t last that long these days.’

Munroe is shoving his big hands in his pockets; the curl of cold spirals round him like it’s sniffing for something. He can’t see it like I can but he feels it and shivers.

‘I sure hope not, Dennis. I had my doubts but I put my reputation on the line. If she’s gonna flake out …’

‘She won’t. She won’t. C’mon, Carmel, help me out a little.’

Whoomf. I’m back inside myself and my feet get unstuck.

‘Don’t worry, Gramps.’ I reach out and touch his white hair; it feels surprisingly silky, like he’s been filching Munroe’s Pantene conditioner. Maybe we’re not so different. ‘Look.’ I lift a foot off the ground.

Gramps’s bad side means Munroe has to give him an arm to help him up.

We cross the road to where the tents are. There’s a dusty path between them. The icy shafts haven’t been here yet; or maybe they have, high up where my head doesn’t reach. In the tents I can hear singing and preaching. The sounds go mmm mmm mmm — shout. Mmm mmm mmm — shout, and I know it will be some preacher mmming about the Lord and the crowd will be shouting back Hallelujahs.

‘Look, Gramps, look.’ I stop and Gramps looks worried that no time is happening again but I’m pointing to the other side of the field where a huge black cross juts out of the ground and cuts into the white sky.

Munroe grins. ‘Quite a feature, don’t you think?’ I nod, but then I see Gramps and he’s standing like he’s been frozen to the bone seeing that great black cross.

‘It’s the path to judgement.’

‘What is?’ Munroe’s a bit annoyed by us both now, I can see. All this stopping and starting when he wants to hurry us along and get going.

‘Today. I will be judged today.’ Gramps is shaking all over and truth be told it makes me feel a bit frightened. I know he’s old and feeble but he’s the closest thing I’ve got to a mum or a dad. Lord knows what would happen to me without him.

‘What in heaven’s name for?’ asks Munroe.

‘For Mercy. For leaving her there like that …’

‘But she’s standing right here.’

Gramps focuses on my face. ‘Oh … yes.’

But I know he’s not talking about me and the prickles start up.

‘C’mon, old boy.’ Munroe sounds like he’s coaxing cattle. ‘Come on, old boy. There’s no judgement today. It’s just a feature is all.’

*

We’re in a tent right at the corner of the field. I sit on the stage swinging my legs against the bright blue carpet tacked over it.

A noise booms out of the speakers. ‘Can you hear me?’

Munroe and Gramps are out back fiddling around with the microphones. I hear them giggling then. They sound like two naughty schoolboys until Gramps’s giggling turns into a cough and a wheeze.

I look at the empty chairs. Soon they will be filled. Gramps will sermonise but they will be restless, impatient. Waiting for the main attraction. Me. They’ll be coming now. Dragging along their limps and tumours. Their sick babies. Their unhealed bones and the burns left unattended due to no insurance. I can feel them clamouring already, gathering up, and the weight of them all makes me want to lie down right here on the stage and fall asleep.

FIVE YEARS 201 DAYS

The house is agitated today. Everything stirs. I don’t know why but neither I nor it can calm down. The wind makes the tree knock on the wall. Floorboards creak and groan and even the walls seem to sigh.

Into that the phone ringing down the hall. The tenor of the sound is different: sharp, insistent, and I hurry down the stairs to answer it. There must be an open window somewhere; coats hanging by the stairs stir like restless spirits wear them, the yellow leaves of the phone book that the phone sits on riffle open and closed enough to make me worry the ringing phone will be pitched to the floor.

I wonder if it’s Graham because I did phone him that day, the day I first looked after Jack. We’ve not been lovers again but around once a month we meet and walk or eat dinner together. He reminds me how he once smoked a cigarette for me. But it won’t be him: it’s daytime, he’ll be teaching gangling youths in a big airy classroom.