Nicola Barker - The Yips

She grabs the handle, and — grunting loudly — lifts it free of the surrounding clutter then staggers over to the open hatch with it. She puts it down for a minute and rubs her sweating forehead with the back of her arm (briefly assessing how best to proceed). She picks it up again and tries to push it through the hatch but it will not fit. She curses (then promptly reprimands herself), bends over and retrieves it, slams it down, opens it and commences emptying out its contents, carelessly at first (a gown, some rolled-up posters, several bottles of exotic hair dye, three knitted hats, a college scarf, an old pair of oxblood-red nineteen-hole DMs with steel toe-caps …).

She holds the boots up close to her face, chuckling, then sits down — temporarily seduced — her legs poking out through the hatch again, to assess the remainder of the case’s contents in a more leisurely manner.

Next — with a delighted gasp — she pulls out an old, red and black striped mohair jumper with overlong arms. The neck has gone and it’s full of holes, but she sniffs it, kisses it, her eyes filling with tears, holding it up, shuddering, against her cheek. She then digs into the case again and withdraws an old bottle of perfume (White Musk from the Body Shop), unstoppers it and sprays some on to her neck, then winces (it’s gone off). Finally she pulls out a roughly made, hand-sewn banner (four feet by three feet), torn down one side, proclaiming the legend: O.U.S.U.:

FIGHT THE TAX!

She smirks her recognition, runs her fingers over the scruffy stitching, then gently re-folds it and places it to one side with the remainder of the case’s other contents.

‘Okay …’ She closes the case, zips it up and tries to fit it through the hatch again. This time it almost squeezes through, but not quite. The ladder gets in the way but it’s the handle that actually lodges it. She scratches her head. ‘How the hell’d he get the damn thing up here in the first place,’ she mutters, ‘if it can’t …?’

She ponders this conundrum for a minute then attempts to resolve it with a hefty kick. The case hardly shifts and her sandal comes flying off, dropping down to the landing below.

‘Oh for heaven’s sake!’ she exclaims, kneeling down (the leg apparently no longer troubling her) and trying to yank it free with her hands. It won’t budge.

‘Oh come on !’

She tries again but makes no progress. She then loses her temper and punches it, repeatedly with her fists, almost losing her balance and toppling down on top of it, head first.

She draws back, alarmed, her leg starting to ache again, feeling light-headed and nauseous. She rests her forehead inside the crook of her arm, panting gently, and tries to think her way around the problem. After a minute or two she drops her arm and throws back her head, exasperated.

‘Am I stuck up here?’ she asks the rafters, her fists clenching, her face defiant. The rafters hold their lofty counsel.

‘Seriously. Seriously! Am I actually stuck up here?!’ she repeats, furious.

Still, no audible response from the wise beams above.

Valentine perches at her computer in her red and white dress, her head still completely covered by Aamilah’s spare niqab . Her mother is standing in the doorway, watching her closely as she prints out a series of photographs depicting different types and textures of grass (some fine, some dense, some long, some rough, some carefully manicured).

After a couple of minutes Valentine senses a presence behind her. She turns.

‘D’you want something, Mum?’ she asks, slightly irritated. ‘I thought you were having a quiet lie down for an hour?’

‘Why are you wearing that mask?’ her mother demands (with an expansive gesture of the hands).

‘It’s not a mask,’ Valentine explains. ‘It’s a niqab .’

‘ Hmmn .’ Her mother grimaces, not entirely satisfied with this response.

Valentine returns to her print-outs.

‘Are you hiding something again?’ her mother persists.

‘No.’ Valentine shakes her head. She pauses. ‘Again?’

‘You were always the most awful, sullen child,’ her mother sighs (yet more expansive gestures). ‘Full of pointless secrets. I’d say, “Tell me the problem, Valentine, confide in your mama,” and you’d say …’(her mother adopts the most ridiculous, keening voice), ‘“There’s a flickering, little light inside of me, ma mère . I need to shelter it with my hands so’s the wind can’t blow it out. I need to keep it secret. I need to keep it safe …” Ah oui! ’ her mother sighs. ‘You were completely loco — a loony-tune! — even back then.’

Valentine has fully turned from the computer and is now staring at her mother, intrigued.

‘I actually said that?’ she asks, touched (against all her instincts). ‘About the little, flickering light?’

‘Yes.’ Her mother nods, then pauses, thoughtfully, pushing some hair behind her ears. ‘Or maybe that was Noel?’ She frowns. ‘Or maybe that was Frédérique? Frédérique was always an incredibly clever and poetic child.’

‘But I thought …’ Valentine scowls, confused.

‘Yes’ — her mother nods — ‘yes. Merci . That was me. I was Frédérique. I was she.’

She curtseys, holding out her skirt.

Valentine stares at her, suspiciously. ‘What’s that you’re wearing on your hands?’ she asks.

‘ Pardon moi? ’

Her mother fans her face, coquettishly.

Valentine stands up. ‘Those rings — where did you get them from?’

‘These?’ Her mother inspects her fingers. ‘Karim gave them to me, as a token. Après nous avons fait l’amour. ’

She giggles, coyly.

‘I don’t think he did.’

Valentine walks towards her and grabs her wrist. Each finger is decorated with a ring — some with two or even three — from her father’s collection.

‘ Ow! ’ her mother exclaims, snatching back her hand. ‘Let me go! Salope! Always so rough! Such a bully!’

She turns and scampers off.

‘You can’t have those!’ Valentine pursues her down the hallway, cornering her at the bottom of the stairs, holding her against the wall and yanking the rings — one by one — from her fingers. ‘You had no business taking them, Mum!’

‘They’re my rings!’ her mother bellows. ‘ Touts les miens! My house! My hands! My life! My rings!’

Valentine wrenches the final ring from her fingers and carries them away with her, her mother now in hot pursuit.

‘Give them back!’ her mother yells.

‘No!’ Valentine charges into the kitchen where a cardboard box (in which she’d earlier stored her father’s collection — and then carefully hidden it, under the sink) now sits, open, recently pilfered, on the kitchen table. She throws the rings inside and starts closing the lid. Her mother flies at her, determined to get them back.

‘You don’t know what you’re doing!’ Valentine pushes her away — more violently, perhaps, than she’d intended — shoving her back, flailing, into the hall. ‘These aren’t for you to wear. They’re Dad’s!’

‘They’re mine, salaud !’ her mother yells.

Valentine picks up the box and holds it in front of her, walking around to the other side of the table to try and maintain a solid, passive space between them both. Her mother prowls around the table after her. On the third circuit her mother starts to pick up speed. Soon they are both running.

All will be well, Valentine is thinking, all will be well. She wonders what Hamra would do. Empty Hamra, uncompromised Hamra, red Hamra, free Hamra, dead Hamra, fearless Hamra. Then it dawns on her.