Nicola Barker - The Yips

‘We’re still at the house. Jen’s a no-show. The electricity’s off. We can’t leave until …’

‘D’you need a hand? I’m a trained engineer. Want me to turn the cab around and head on over?’

‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’

‘It’s early days,’ Toby confides (a smile in his voice), ‘but if I’m hoping to win over Esther then I suppose I could do worse than getting some baby-sitting practice under my belt.’

She’s sitting on the stairs, her ankles apart, her thighs pressed together, her elbows on her knees, her chin in her hands. He stands before her like a humble penitent waiting anxiously before an altar — the glorious altar-cloth — the holy scent — her voice a prayer.

He feels so angry — so disappointed — so betrayed — that he could tear himself apart with his own hands — rip himself to pieces. He feels at once potent and worthless — he is a spoiled meal — an unwanted gift — a river that has overrun its bank.

‘… halfway through lunch, just relaxing under the tree when these three boys turn up with a ball …’

He tries Jen again.

‘… And I swear they did it on purpose! There was juice everywhere — all over the blanket, the food. I was just so … so angry ! I grabbed the ball and I threw it at him but I couldn’t … I mean because of the hijab I wasn’t able to …’

He tries Jen again.

‘… just spat. Didn’t say a word, just spat. I felt sick. I honestly couldn’t believe …’

He tries Jen again.

‘… And I suddenly thought: Here I am, nothing to be afraid of, nothing to defend, but so terrified of everything, so ashamed inside, so compromised, and here they are, so much to defend, so unafraid. I was just … I was in awe . And like Aamilah said …’

He starts counting backwards, from a hundred, in his head …

38, 37, 36 …

‘… I focused on the grass. Felt it under my fingers. I thought, There’s a message here — in the detail, if only I could …’

He places a tiny, smooth pebble into the shallow basin of her belly-button, then runs his finger in a lazy ring around it.

‘I never felt afraid,’ he confesses, ‘I always dreamed of being a soldier — like my grandad. I wasn’t ever afraid to die. I wanted to live, but I was never afraid to die. I don’t deserve any credit for it. It’s just what I am. I don’t know why I’ve always felt that way. It wasn’t resignation, more like … I can’t even think …’

‘When I talk to you it’s like’ — she frowns — ‘like my words aren’t just sounds. It’s like they’re tiny pieces of my soul which you hold in your palm and you stroke.’

Even as she speaks, a gong sounds in his head. Its vibrations set his teeth on edge. Is it the gong they sound just moments before they pull a performer from the stage? Is it a saucepan in the face? Is it the gentle resonation of an eternal truth? The tinny howl of a mystic singing bowl?

Toby finally arrives, borrows Valentine’s torch, fiddles around for five minutes, reconnects the electricity, and is then settled down on the sofa, beaming — quite the hero — with a bottle of cola, a sandwich and the TV remote. They head outside to the car. The moon is hidden behind a cloud. Gene stores her equipment in the boot.

‘Not the Hummer, then?’ she asks, placing her lean, neat feet in her fine, red heels where Sheila usually stores a clutch of empty water bottles, two, old prayer books and her favourite string shopping bag.

How much for a double room at the Leaside? Sorry, how much?

She slips down in the seat, slightly curled up, knees pressed together — just millimetres away from the gearstick — a perfect, terrified, scarlet mouse, and gazes at him, unblinking, like a child hypnotized by the wonders of Christmas, for the entire duration of the drive.

Sheila is sitting on a chair in Stan’s bedroom, her forehead resting on the desk. An email has just been downloaded on to the computer.

Oh my God, Sheila! How long has it been? Twelve years? Thirteen? How the heck are you? What on earth are you doing with yourself nowadays? Okay — so I managed to glean from your email that you’re still with the Church (the phrase ‘one of my parishioners’ was a bit of a give-away …) but aside from that? How’s the gorgeous Marek? Are you still in contact? And the baby? Oh Lordy! All grown up by now, I suppose.

Are you well? We missed you at the big Keble reunion last year. Do you still receive the college magazine? I’ve been loosely involved with it over the past decade or so (although increasingly less since the girls arrived). If you’ve fallen off the mailing list then forward me your contact details and I’ll pop you back on again.

Yes, I’m fine. The arthritis is still a problem but I manage to keep it at bay with a special diet (No caffeine! No red meat! No fruit! No booze!) and a strenuous, daily Pilates workout. Hard yakka (as my Australian nanny might often be heard to mutinously intone), but mustn’t grumble!

Luella just turned four (on Tuesday — thanks for asking) and Phemie is a terrible two, but almost, almost three. Afraid I can’t agree with you re. the Telegraph article. The journalist was a bit of a shit, but I’m notoriously cagey about my private life (what tattered vestiges currently remain of it!).

We must meet up. Contact Vania (my benighted PR) with some dates and we’ll sort something out (might not be poss. till late October, my end — post Toronto International Art Fair where I’m meant to be delivering a series of lectures which I haven’t even started to get my head around yet).

Re. your artist/photographer. I had a quick peek at the website and the work certainly looks interesting — although I’m not sure what the wider, legal ramifications might be (you should probably have a quick word with her about this). A friend of mine (Gillie Maar — you may have heard of her) tried to exhibit some of the Win Delvoye Art-farm pieces recently and ended up in all kinds of hot water.

The work is very fresh, very visceral, very ‘real’ (as you say), although I’m not sure if it needs to be ‘worked into some kind of complete theoretical framework’ (?!). I do tend to feel that it’s generally best not to over-think these things (the way we did in the nineties, eh?) but to approach them holistically, enjoy their gradual development in a more tentative, more honest and organic way.

I’m definitely thinking Kat von D/Michael Hussar (which can’t be bad).

Off to Boston for a few days, but leave this with me and I’ll give it another ponder on the plane.

Do take care of yourself –

XX Pam

PS No more coffee, darling! Way too acidic!

PPS Vania thought your email was completely hilarious! Wonderful! Same old Sheila, I thought: breathless, volcanic, zealous, grandiloquent. All knees and elbows. Do or die. No half measures …

Bless you!

X

PPPS Remember OnTheRag , Sheila?! Oh God — what were we like?!

X

Sheila lifts her head and then bangs it back down again. She lifts it and then bangs it. She lifts it and then bangs it.

‘This is why,’ she murmurs, ‘this is why I dropped out. This is why I fell pregnant. Because of smug idiots like you , Pammy Sullivan. With your spoilt, self-satisfied, fat-headed, lecture-giving, coffee-avoiding … Urgh! ’

As she speaks, the vehemence of her words and the angle of her face cause a silken thread of drool to drip from the corner of her mouth and down on to the carpet. She straightens up, alarmed, patting her lips with the collar of her dressing gown.

Her eyes fix on the screen.

‘What on earth are you doing with yourself nowadays?’ she parrots, in withering tones.