Nicola Barker - The Yips

‘But this is double the amount we agreed,’ she murmurs, mystified.

‘I know’ — Vicki nods — ‘because I’m hoping to take up a little more of your time.’

‘Oh. Okay,’ Jen promptly agrees. ‘Although I’m meant to be baby-sitting at eight …’

Vicki opens the Kia’s compact boot. ‘Would you mind checking to see if anything’s left in there?’ she asks.

Jen turns and leans into the boot. She closely scans inside it. There’s nothing in there. She’s about to say, ‘There’s nothing in here,’ but before she can open her mouth, Vicki has delivered her a hefty shove from the rear, half up-ended her into the boot, grabbed her legs, tossed them in and deftly slammed it shut.

‘I know who you’re working for,’ she announces, coldly, then walks to the driver’s side, climbs in, starts the engine, fastens her seat belt and calmly pushes the gears into reverse.

Gene guides Mallory ahead of him into the house — like a little human shield — his hands resting lightly on either shoulder. Once inside he removes her school blazer, hangs it on a hook alongside his military jacket, then looks around — somewhat anxiously — for Sheila.

‘Is that you, Gene?’

A muffled voice.

‘Sheila?’

He turns on the spot.

‘ Help! I’m stuck in the bloody attic!’

He walks to the bottom of the stairs and peers up. From this vantage point he can see the hatch into the loft which is blocked by … he squints … a suitcase?

‘The case got lodged,’ Sheila yells (as he mounts the stairs, two at a time), ‘… and I’ve managed to hurt my leg.’

‘Is it bad?’ Gene grabs the fallen towel and passes it to Mallory who obligingly heads off to the bathroom — ever fastidious — to hang it over the heated rail. He kicks away the single sandal, climbs a few rungs of the ladder and begins wiggling the case to try and release it.

‘I don’t know how you got the damn thing up here in the first place!’ Sheila tries helping from her side.

‘Have you been trapped for long?’ Gene enquires.

‘Forty minutes — an hour?’

‘If you’d only just waited till I got back …’ he reprimands her as the case is gradually un-lodged and starts to inch through the gap.

‘Thank God for that!’

No sooner is the case in motion than Sheila is tossing down her other sandal — it bounces off Gene’s shoulder — and following it down herself. Gene drops the case and quickly straightens up to try and guide her.

‘I’m fine!’ she snaps. ‘Step back — don’t touch the leg!’

She emerges, naked, but for a bandage and an ill-fitting mohair jumper (one nipple hangs through a hole. It barely skims her buttocks).

‘What on earth …?’ He is about to enquire about her nudity (then her injury), but is startled into silence by her new haircut. Mallory has now returned and is standing beside him, equally astonished — it would seem — by Sheila’s ungainly emergence.

‘Mummy! Your hair !’ she gasps, followed by, ‘What are you wearing?!’

‘Perhaps you should go and put the kettle on,’ Gene suggests, guiding her (his little shield again) towards the stairs. Mallory is less keen to oblige him this time around. She goes down backwards, one step at a time — clinging on to the banister — eyeing the transformed Sheila (horror-struck) all the while.

Sheila limps into their bedroom.

‘I forgot how itchy this thing always was against the skin,’ she grumbles, pulling it off over her head and grabbing her dressing gown from behind the door (virtually slamming it into Gene’s face as he tries to follow her). He waits for a second and then cautiously enters.

Sheila is inspecting her filthy hands.

‘What happened to your leg?’ he asks.

‘Uh …’ She looks up, vaguely. ‘The electricity meter.’

Gene waits for more information, his eyes moving, anxiously, between the bandage and her shorn hair.

‘It fell off,’ she adds, ‘and thwacked me’ — she points — ‘right there.’

‘Is it bad?’

‘I passed out — only very briefly — during a baptism.’ She shrugs. ‘They initially thought the bone might be cracked, but turns out it’s only chipped. There’s a big blood blister …’

Gene inspects the slight swelling on her foot. ‘Shouldn’t you be resting it?’

Sheila doesn’t answer. She is gazing off, unfocused, into the middle distance.

‘Is something … is something up? Wrong?’ Gene wonders — suddenly curiously inarticulate — finding himself parched and alone in a linguistic desert — verbally dry — barely capable of placing one, exhausted syllable in front of the other.

‘Something wrong?’ Sheila echoes, gazing at him, owlishly.

‘It just feels like something’s … something’s happened, maybe?’

‘It actually dawned on me while I was stuck up in the attic,’ Sheila muses. ‘It was ridiculously hot up there — stuffy — and I was completely naked … uh …’

She looks momentarily distracted.

‘You were saying?’ Gene prompts her.

‘Yes.’ She nods. ‘I was sat up there and I was thinking that either something amazing was happening to me — is happening — connected to faith, I guess — to God; either that or I’m completely losing my marbles.’

She grins.

‘And you think that’s funny?’ Gene murmurs, visibly alarmed.

‘I’ve taken a pile of painkillers, so I reasoned that it was just …’

She fades out again, then refocuses, without any prompting. ‘I actually barked at these kids the other day!’ she snorts.

‘Barked?’ Gene echoes.

‘Yes. I barked at them. Asian kids — messing around out back. I woofed. Then I sang a hymn. “Once in Royal David’s City”, which — as you probably know — has always been a hymn I’ve found especially dreary.’

‘You didn’t mention that before.’ Gene frowns.

‘About the hymn?’

‘About the barking.’

‘Maybe that’s why they call it “barking mad”,’ she quips, flatly.

‘Were you up in the attic for any particular reason?’ Gene wonders.

‘Yeah …’ She looks around her, distracted again.

‘You brought down your old suitcase.’

‘I did.’ She nods. ‘In fact …’

She sits down on the bed. ‘It’s been a very odd day. Almost like a dream.’

She puts a hand to her hair then leans forward and tries to inspect herself in the dressing table mirror.

‘That’s a pretty radical haircut,’ Gene murmurs. ‘Quite a departure. I mean it’s … I … I like it. It’s very …’

‘Radical?!’ Sheila chuckles, amused (almost indifferent), teasing it with her fingers. ‘Valentine cut it for me. The fringe was all …’ She flaps her hands (like it’s too much effort to explain in full). ‘In fact while we’re on the subject of Valentine’ — she gazes up at him, accusingly — ‘I just can’t believe you didn’t tell me about …’

‘Kettle’s boiled!’

Mallory pops her head around the door.

Gene is frozen to the spot.

‘Did you heat the pot?’ Sheila asks.

Mallory nods.

‘Good. Well I fancy half and half — one Earl Grey, one Breakfast Tea. Just two bags if that’s okay …’

Mallory nods again.

‘And I’ve bought us a McVitie’s Jamaican Ginger Cake as a treat — it’s very soft so you should be able to manage a little bit of it. I’ve put it in the bread bin. Take it out and cut a few slices — not too many. Be very, very careful with the knife. We’ll both be down in a minute.’

Mallory nods then half-turns as the land-line in the hallway starts to ring.

‘Ignore that,’ Sheila instructs her, ‘it’ll only be work. Oh, and while you’re still here’ — she grins — ‘I should probably warn you that I have a big piece of news to share with you over tea — exciting news.’