James Hannah - The A to Z of You and Me

‘I should never have started this,’ I say.

‘Started what, my darling?’

‘It’s too painful to remember these things.’

‘Oh, lovey, I’m so sorry, it was only supposed to be a silly game to keep you occupied.’

‘No, no,’ I say, steadily regaining some kind of equilibrium, ‘it’s not you, it’s not you. It’s me.’

Am I imagining it? I’m shocked to see she seems a little choked. Double shine in her eyes.

‘Sheila — could I —? Morphine?’

‘Oh yes, yes, of course. Give me a sec.’

Tear ducts

THIS IS IT: I cannot make the tears come. And anyway, boys don’t cry, do they?

But if you don’t cry, does it mean you don’t care?

If I could just cry it out.

Maybe it’s better I don’t.

Maybe I haven’t earned that.

Crying isn’t about sadness. Crying is to sadness what cold is to a cold. Unrelated.

The stupid reasons I’ve cried.

I cried at my dad’s funeral, but I remember absolutely that it wasn’t for the reason everyone said it was. It was because everyone called me poor little love , and said aw bless. And if enough different people say aw bless to you in one day it’s going to make you freak out. A congregation of over a hundred and fifty. Each and every one of them must have said aw bless to me.

I finally broke down when my grandma offered me a biscuit. I said I didn’t want it. She said, Come on, you can have it, it’s yours. But I said no, because I was feeling like I wanted to honour my dad by not having the biscuit.

‘Go on! You know you want it!’

Everyone looking at me.

Me, flushing hot, and unable to stop the tears from coming.

‘Aw, bless …’

Fuckers.

Where are they now, eh?

So here I am, once again. I thought I’d escaped. I was stupid enough to allow myself to think that maybe you and I had finally got it together. But I find myself back in my boyhood bedroom, in my boyhood bed with its collapsed mattress, dressed up in my dad’s old pyjamas. I’m pressing your blanket to my face. Its scent fills my nostrils and I am awash with a renewed wave of sorrow. Deserved sorrow.

There’s no coming back from this.

There’s no coming back.

I hear my mum on the stairs. The slip-slap of her slippers. In a moment she’ll appear at the door, break the spell of solitude. I look up. There she is. Never changing, always the same.

‘Can I come in?’

I say nothing. She comes in. She’s carrying a bowl of chicken soup, and sets it down next to my alarm clock. She sits beside me on the bed, and we creak in closer to each other.

I take the crochet blanket up, pull it safely towards me.

I look up at my mum. ‘The blanket smells of her.’

‘Oh, bab.’

We are crying.

She cradles my head, places her palm on my hair, and gently, gently presses all over.

She wants to talk about it, but I can feel my anxiety burning within. I don’t have anything to tell her. All there is to tell would break her heart. She doesn’t even know I smoke. How would I tell her about — everything else?

I can’t tell her anything, so we sit there in silence as the soup cools before me. I don’t have any appetite. I only wanted her to make it so she would have something to do. Something away from me.

I’m sorry, Mum.

I don’t mean to be mean.

I’m just sitting here, pushing the crochet to my nose and mouth and tightening for crying.

Mum kisses the top of my head, my hair.

‘It was cruel,’ she says now. ‘She was too cruel.’

‘No,’ I say. ‘No, she’s not been cruel.’

‘Do you want me to wash it for you? I’m sure I could put it on a hand wash or something, if you want to keep it.’ She starts examining a corner of the blanket to work out how best to wash it.

‘No,’ I say, ‘no thanks.’

Mum leaves me.

I want this blanket to keep your scent. It will remind me. I can change. I can do this, and then you’ll come back. And we will wrap ourselves in it.

Mum reappears at the door, holding a freshly pressed blanket she’s drawn from the airing cupboard.

‘Here we are, bab, why don’t you take this one, eh? Have this blanket.’

Laura’s all in my face, and the people at the other tables in the café are starting to get a whiff of scandal. I wish I wasn’t still in my work shirt.

‘Why aren’t you talking to my boyfriend?’

‘Laura, I’m just trying to eat my lunch, all right?’

‘Why aren’t you talking to Mal?’

Mal stands sheepishly behind her, trying not to catch my eye.

‘I’m not.’ I mean I’m not not talking to him.

‘Yeah,’ she says, ‘you aren’t. And I want to know why.’

I consider my Nik Nak-powdered fingers, at a loss as to what I’m supposed to say. She’s giving me a soap opera, like this is how people are supposed to talk to each other.

‘I think it’s totally shitty, what you’re doing,’ she says.

I’m not engaging with this. I start to methodically de-powder each finger with a deliberate lip-smack.

Mal benignly pulls out a chair adjacent to mine and sits.

‘How is it Mal’s fault?’ demands Laura.

‘No. Laura—’ says Mal ‘—he’s all right, yeah? I never should have said anything. It was a mistake, OK? I thought she knew. You told me she knew.’

‘No I fucking didn’t!’

‘Laura! Keep your voice down,’ I say, casting a glance across the café to see if any management are in the area.

‘You said they were being open and honest with each other about everything,’ says Mal. He looks awkward. Genuinely upset. Laura glares at me again.

‘She and you weren’t even together at the time anyway. I don’t know why she thinks she can get all upset about it if she’d dumped you—’

I shake my head. No, no. I don’t want her turning her fire on you.

Laura turns to Mal. ‘He’s spent his whole life blaming other people for choices he’s made. It’s time he started taking a bit of responsibility.’

‘Fuck off !’ I surprise myself, feeling the shout coming out of me. I catch a tut from a customer at a nearby table. ‘Will you leave me alone? Do you think I want to sit here and listen to all your bullshit? Look at you! Look at your own life for a change and sort that out before you start doling out sage advice to me about mine.’

I think for a moment Laura’s going to laugh as the words ring in the air around us. This is a game, right? Neither of us is really taking this seriously.

She fixes me a stare with her wonky face, and with typical extrovert silence, she suddenly gets up and sweeps off, leaving a big stupid empty space behind.

Making it all about her. Now she’s the one who’s been wronged. So typical.

So here’s me and Mal.

Two bodies adjacent in the same space.

Not looking at each other.

I’m looking at the trolley lined up waiting for customers’ empty trays. I should maybe help the kitchen staff with that, perhaps wheel it through to them.

Mal’s voice comes to me first.

‘She’s about to become more powerful than you could possibly imagine.’

He’s absolutely deadpan.

I snort, lightly.

‘Don’t I know it.’

We sit and just — I don’t know. Here we are. Again.

‘Listen, man,’ he says, ‘she’s only trying to defend me. You know what she’s like.’