Nicola Barker - The Yips

‘Unofficially, yes. But they’re actually down on the register as —’

‘Yesterday,’ Sheila interrupts, impatiently. ‘This was yesterday, the day after the incident at the hotel?’

‘Uh …’

Gene nods, flushing slightly under the intensity of her gaze.

‘Well you definitely didn’t mention that before.’

Sheila’s certain.

‘Really?’ Gene frowns, defensive. ‘I’m pretty sure I did.’

‘Nope. I’d have remembered. I mean it’s such an odd coincidence, don’t you think? In a town this size? The next day ?! I would definitely have remembered something like that.’

‘You were somewhat preoccupied by the whole Stan situation at the time,’ Gene reminds her.

‘And with good reason,’ she insists.

‘Absolutely.’

They stare at each other for a second, neither giving way, and then, ‘Lost!’ she snorts. ‘ Lonely?! ’

‘I’ll drop Mallory off at speech therapy,’ Gene promises (refusing to get embroiled), ‘but she’ll need collecting just after seven thirty …’

‘You think by using loaded words like “lonely” and “awkward” you’ll tug on my Christian heartstrings and then I’ll miraculously relent, is that it?’ she demands, her eyes shining, combatively.

‘Well what would Jesus do?’ Gene asks, trying not to laugh.

‘Lost!’ she snorts again. ‘Like some innocent, little lamb strayed off the path of righteousness? You’re unbelievable!’

He shrugs, self-deprecatingly.

‘Unbelievable,’ she repeats. ‘But d’you know what the most maddening part of it all is?’

The light in her eyes fades ever so slightly.

‘What?’ Gene’s suddenly wary.

‘You’re completely right!’

‘I am?’

‘Of course you are. And I know it. Why else do you think my stomach’s perpetually cramping up into knots’ — she rattles the indigestion tablet bottle, vengefully — ‘and I’ve no sodding fingernails left to speak of?’

‘Please don’t think I’m just shifting the blame here,’ Gene mutters, ‘but from where I’m currently standing the PCC aren’t helping matters much, either.’

‘ Urgh . The PCC,’ she echoes, wincing. ‘Why not throw in the threatened closure of the allotments while you’re at it?’

‘The Samuel Wright-Todd Memorial Window?’ he suggests, grinning.

She closes her eyes for a second. ‘I never thought it’d be a walk in the park, Gene,’ she grumbles, her shoulders slumping forward, ‘but the constant, niggling criticisms, the petty infighting, the complete lack of support from above …’

Words temporarily fail her.

‘The woodworm problem in the vestry,’ Gene cheerfully takes over from where she’s left off, ‘the loose tiles on the church roof, the persistent tagging on the back wall …’

‘That sneaky, little Humanist, William Tuttle, stealing all the funeral work right from under my nose!’ Sheila fumes.

‘Damn the man!’ Gene grins. ‘With his ridiculously low fees and his comprehensive service plan!’

‘This infernal, sodding kitchen!’ Sheila squawks, her eyes flying open. ‘Not even room for a dishwasher or a decent-sized washing machine! The malfunctioning cooker! No proper freezer! And now they’re seriously expecting me to help cater church events from over here?’

‘The old reverend’s wife used to manage it,’ Gene gently fans the flames of her ire. ‘I hear Mrs Noble’s mini bacon quiches were second to none.’

‘Francine bloody Noble!’ Sheila slams down both her hands on to the yellow, laminated breakfast bar. ‘The woman was a bloody saint!’

‘Stalwart of the choir — unbelievable soprano voice — made all the kid’s clothes herself, by hand …’ Gene provokes her still further.

‘Fine! All right! Enough!’

Sheila laughingly concedes defeat, turning to place the indigestion tablets back into the cupboard, before — seconds later — withdrawing a stray pair of tweezers, sticky with dried cereal. ‘How on earth …?’

‘I dread to think,’ Gene mutters, his hand creeping around to the bruise on his shoulder.

‘Will you make an appointment with the doctor?’ she asks, not missing a beat.

‘Nuh-uh.’

He shakes his head. ‘I’ve got my six-monthly check-up in a couple of weeks. May as well sit it out.’

‘Ah.’

She nods, her eyes briefly scanning his face, then she turns and peers through the tiny window above the sink and out into the back yard beyond.

‘You’re so bloody stoical,’ she muses (as if commenting, dispassionately, on a tree or a cloud). ‘It’s amazing. It makes me want to hug you and slap you, all at once.’

‘Thanks.’

He smiles, stiffly.

‘Don’t take it amiss.’ She turns to face him again. ‘It’s a blessing, a kind of a … a gift , almost. I’ve always found it truly enviable …’ She makes a half-cocked attempt to mollify him. ‘And I know it’s just your personality — your character — something you take entirely for granted — hardly even give a second thought to …’ She shrugs. ‘I mean it’s just what it is. It’s just who you are . There’s no support network — no faith — no gratitude …’

Gene scowls. ‘I hope I’m not ungrateful,’ he murmurs, hurt.

‘It’s enviable,’ she repeats, ‘it’s effortless. It’s wonderful. And yet here I am, in my sanctimonious, little dog collar’ — she tugs at her collar, balefully — ‘supposedly representing everything that’s good and just and decent, but actually consumed by bile and rage and frustration, finding everything so ridiculously bloody hard …’ Her mouth twists into a mordant smile. ‘Then I look at you, all free and unencumbered, without care, without faith, and I see this … this … this easiness, this earnestness, this gentle acceptance of things … this sense of infinite patience … this … this infuriating piety …’

She throws up her hands. There are tears in her eyes.

‘You feel things very deeply,’ he insists, ‘that’s all.’

‘And you don’t?’

She delivers him a sharp look. He frowns, momentarily caught off guard.

‘Bully for Sheila and all her misguided passion, eh?!’ she scoffs. ‘Angry, bitter, exhausted old Sheila! Bully for her!’

‘You feel frustrated — unappreciated.’ He moves towards her, instinctively, and touches her arm. ‘That’s inevitable. You’re a woman in a male-dominated profession. It goes with the territory …’

‘No.’

She’s not buying it. ‘I’m judgemental. I’m opinionated. I’m short-tempered. And it’s all rooted in ego. In pride.’ She knocks his hand from her arm by adjusting her hair. ‘I lack humility. I lack resignation. I’m too … urgh … stressed all the time. Like the other day, with the bishop —’

‘That’s just part and parcel of what you do,’ he interrupts, possibly hoping to divert her, ‘you’re an arbitrator between the forces of good and evil.’

She ponders this for a second. ‘Like Luke Skywalker?’ she mutters, amused, in spite of herself.

‘Or Miss Marple.’ He grins.

‘That’d be right.’ She chuckles. ‘Nothing too glamorous or high-tech — just the light perm, the pleated skirt, the nice, comfy pair of leather brogues …’

‘Down on the church allotments, spy-glass in hand …’ Gene teases her.

‘Not even Miss Marple could reason her way out of that particular hole.’ She grimaces, plucking a stray hair off her sleeve.

‘The decision’s been made?’ Gene suddenly looks serious. ‘He’s flogging them off?’

‘Yup.’

She twists the stray hair around her index finger.