Nicola Barker - The Yips

‘Some people say that true happiness is all about giving, never about receiving.’ Gene nods. ‘That as soon as you try and hold on to something — to define it or grasp it too tightly — it automatically disappears. But when you give, on the other hand —’

‘It’s like I always used to drink tea with sugar in it as a kid,’ Jen interrupts, ‘three, heaped spoonfuls. Then one day I thought: I should give up sugar! Be more grown up! Protect my teeth! So I stopped taking sugar — wham! — just like that. And for the next couple of weeks every time I had a cup of tea it was absolutely, bloody disgusting. Eventually I got fed up with it — couldn’t take it any more. I was like: I’ll just bang in a couple of spoonfuls, you know, on the sly …’

‘I know exactly where this is heading!’ Gene grins.

‘It was revolting!’ Jen exclaims. ‘And I remember thinking: You gave up something you enjoyed and you suffered for it. Then you showed weakness and you suffered some more. This is fucked! Life is shit!’

‘But now you enjoy it without sugar?’ Gene checks.

‘Yeah. Now I don’t notice.’ Jen shrugs.

‘I don’t like to harp on about it,’ Gene volunteers, ‘but an awful tragedy or an illness tends to make you change your perspective on what happiness actually is. It’s a cliché, but bad experiences tend to make you grateful for small mercies, make you reappraise your priorities.’

‘So you think it’s all relative?’

‘To some extent.’

‘Maybe you’ve just lowered your expectations,’ Jen muses, ‘not given up so much as … I dunno … given in.’

‘That’s precisely what Ransom thinks.’ Gene laughs.

‘Then it must be true, Gene!’ Jen trills.

‘It’s more like …’ — he frowns — ‘sometimes to not want something is the greatest kind of happiness.’ His frown deepens as he struggles to explain. ‘To do without. To break a need. To accept rejection. Just to appreciate what you already have. To find joy in the really small, really insignificant things.’

‘Christ, that sounds tedious!’ Jen exclaims.

‘I suppose it depends on the nature of the person involved,’ Gene concedes, his mind turning to Sheila.

‘Like if God hands you the shitty end of the stick,’ Jen ruminates, ‘say — for argument’s sake — you’re stuck in the boot of a car for an extended duration, your theory is that the best way to survive it is to be thankful that you can still twiddle your toes, even if you’ve just shat your pants, can’t manipulate the lock and have an excruciating cramp in your neck?’

‘Ah, pearls of wisdom from the black annals of the boot,’ Gene teases. ‘I suppose it was only ever a matter of time …’

‘I’m going to write a self-help book,’ Jen jokes. ‘I’ll call it Boot Up .’

‘Or Get Booted !’ Gene suggests.

‘ Trunk Calls! ’ Jen cackles.

‘Be sure and put me down for a copy.’ Gene smiles.

‘It’ll all be very free-form …’ Jen expands.

‘A series of random, little Jen-style thoughts and aphorisms.’ Gene nods.

‘Like a very long Hallmark card but with more swearing.’

‘Great concept.’

‘Nothing too serious — mainly filler and make-up advice, very short on good sense, absolutely no rules.’

‘Just a light buffet of Jen wisdom.’ Gene chuckles.

‘Yeah. Something nice and easily digestible — finger-food for the internet generation. Maybe a little toy hidden away inside somewhere …’

‘Like a Christmas cracker or a self-help Kinder Egg.’

‘Exactly!’ Jen’s enthusiastic.

‘And the basic philosophy?’

‘No philosophy. No guidance. No structure. No pay-off. No real consequences. Just stuff and then more stuff.’

‘Stuff?’ Gene double-checks that he’s heard her correctly.

‘Yeah, stuff. Like, here’s some stuff, here’s some other stuff, here’s some more stuff. Just stuff — more and more stuff, different kinds of stuff which is really only the same stuff but in different colours and with different names; stuff stacked up on top of itself in these huge, messy piles …’

‘Sounds a little unstable.’ Gene frowns, concerned.

‘Oh yeah’ — Jen chuckles — ‘it’s all very precarious. That’s part of the fun. It’s constantly threatening to topple over — to crash.’

‘And when it does?’

‘Then it does! It topples! It crashes! The shit hits the fan for a while, then the fallen stuff just re-configures itself and everything pretty much goes back to normal.’

‘So this “stuff” is purely physical or …?’

‘It’s both. It’s hard and soft. Most of it’s just ideas, just chatter. This big, stupid, inane conversation blaring in your ear which is determined to draw you in. And either you despise it or you embrace it. That’s entirely up to you, of course.’

‘And which do you recommend?’

Gene jinks on to the Leagrave Road.

‘Oh I don’t know,’ Jen sighs. ‘Neither — either. Although you may as well join in because it’ll go on anyway, even if you don’t, so what the heck, eh?’

‘If you can’t beat ’em …’

‘You got it!’ Jen makes a brave attempt at a perky American accent.

They are both silent again for a while.

‘I mean I know it’s stupid and kind of fatuous,’ Jen sighs, ‘but what’s wrong with just wanting to be a part of the glow — the energy — the buzz?’

‘The glow?’

‘Yeah. The stupid conversation — the hysteria — the bullshit. The big inside the small — the small inside the big — the riot — the party — that chemical they fill balloons with …’

‘Helium,’ Gene suggests.

‘Inhale the helium! Breathe it in! Hold on to the rose of delusion — yeah! — grip on to it as tightly as you can! Cling on to it, even as the blood trickles down your wrists!’

Gene pulls into Jen’s road. ‘Perhaps I should come in with you,’ he murmurs, slightly disturbed.

‘Nope. It’ll be fine. It’ll be great. I’m all good.’

He reverses the car into a space a couple of doors down from Jen’s house.

‘The lights are off,’ he observes.

‘Fab.’

Jen doesn’t move.

‘How about …’ Gene half turns in his seat. ‘I mean just for the sake of argument, say, you consider abandoning the prickly rose of delusion concept — the whole Shaka Zulu’s Martian wife angle — re-sit your A-levels, go to university, become a vet, join a reputable practice, gain some valuable experience, raise some funds, travel, maybe volunteer at an animal refuge somewhere exotic … the kind of “stuff” — real stuff — you always dreamed of as a girl?’

‘Be good and kind’ — Jen beams — ‘cultivate my caring side.’

‘You’ll need a strong trowel and some secateurs.’ Gene chuckles (running with the gardening metaphor).

‘More like a rotovator and three tons of chemical fertilizer!’ Jen snorts.

‘But it’d be worth all the effort in the end,’ Gene assures her.

‘Well I’ll certainly take that on board.’ Jen opens the door — before Gene even has a chance to unfasten his seat belt — and clambers out of the car, unaided. She straightens up, slightly creaky, and pops her head through the front window. He notices that one of her false eyelashes is coming loose from her eyelid.

‘You really are my hero,’ she repeats, yanking off the lash then patting him tenderly on the shoulder. ‘Massive thanks, Batman. Big hugs to Sheila.’

She pauses. He thinks she’s going to add something — something heartfelt and meaningful, perhaps, relating to their former conversation. Instead she just points at his arm and squeals, ‘ Wah! Huge spider! ’