Nicola Barker - The Yips

‘… a way of striking out against the social and sexual straitjackets that society imposes on them,’ Sheila persists, ‘and most of those pressures tend to originate in the home, with the family.’

‘Trust me, I’ve never needed any extra help in screwing up my life.’ Valentine smiles, darkly. ‘I generally seem to manage that all by myself.’

‘I find that hard to believe.’ Sheila tuts.

‘And anyway,’ Valentine continues (embarrassed by Sheila’s quick show of loyalty), ‘Dad and Noel’s grief only really turned to anger — I mean so far as I can remember — once money entered the equation; all the hassle with the insurance people — the fight for compensation — the good publicity, the bad publicity.’ She grimaces. ‘As if the sum total of Mum’s former life had a specific figure you could attach to it …’ she sighs, frustrated. ‘I never had much time for that approach. “Happiness is the path of least resistance” — at least that’s what I keep trying to tell myself.’

‘I was sitting at my computer this morning’ — Sheila nods, encouraged — ‘and I suddenly thought: She should tattoo him! She should tattoo Stuart Ransom! Put this whole thing — this awful feud — to bed, once and for all. Start a fresh chapter! It came to me in a flash.’

‘Like a divine intervention,’ Valentine deadpans.

‘I just thought: She needs to define herself as an individual in the world. Strike out! Take a stand! Do what she does best! Reclaim her life …’ Sheila pauses, conscience-stricken. ‘Does that sound crazy to you?’

Valentine gazes at her for a while, perplexed.

‘A little,’ she confesses, keen not to offend. ‘I mean what could I possibly hope to gain by …?’

‘The publicity for one thing,’ Sheila quickly steps in. ‘From what I can tell, Ransom’s very smart at using the media — good and bad — to his own advantage, so why not play him at his own game? I mean if you can’t beat him —’

‘That sounds dangerously like my brother Noel’s philosophy,’ Valentine interrupts, ‘and it’s ended in nothing but misery. Stuart Ransom has this clever way of twisting things.’

‘But it’s also a grand gesture, don’t you see?’ Sheila persists. ‘An act of public reconciliation. A rising above. A shaking free.’

‘Sounds fine when you put it that way,’ Valentine concedes, ‘but the logistical problems alone …’

‘Well he’s staying in the local area, for starters’ — Sheila tries to look at the positives — ‘so travel wouldn’t be too much of an issue. And while Gene’s working as his caddie …’

‘Sorry?’

Valentine frowns.

‘Gene’s caddying for him this week,’ Sheila blithely repeats.

The temperature in the room suddenly drops by several degrees.

‘He didn’t mention that,’ Valentine murmurs.

‘Oh. Okay …’ Sheila rapidly reassesses the situation, slightly panicked, trying to think on her feet. She draws a deep breath. ‘Gene told me about the problem with the electricity meter,’ she confesses.

Valentine’s face stiffens.

‘And not just the meter …’ Sheila haltingly continues.

‘What else did he tell you?’ The colour drains from Valentine’s cheeks.

‘The letter,’ Sheila murmurs, apologetic, ‘from the bank. He read it by accident.’

‘Letter?’ Valentine scowls (this isn’t quite what she was expecting).

‘The letter threatening to foreclose on the house,’ Sheila explains. ‘I just thought …’

‘Foreclose on the house?’ Valentine repeats. ‘Whose house?’

‘He said it was propping the thing up — the meter — all the screws had come loose. It fell out while he was doing the reading. He thought it was just a random scrap of …’

‘A letter from the bank?’ Valentine mumbles. ‘But why would …?’

Her grip on the child becomes so tight that Nessa squeals a sharp complaint. Valentine places her down, gently, on to the floor, then slowly straightens up again.

‘He honestly didn’t realize …’ Sheila backtracks.

‘You’re starting to scare me, now,’ Valentine warns her, her jaw tensing, fists clenching, as if readying herself for sudden combat. ‘You say he’s working for Ransom — there’s a problem with the meter — you want me to do a tattoo — there’s some … some letter ?’

‘I just thought: She needs a quick injection of cash — and how better?’ Sheila runs on, alarmed. ‘I mean it’d be an amazing way of generating interest in your work — of creating a spectacle. Because art’s all about the gesture — the moment — the event … You know: the buzz — the chatter — the conversation …’

Valentine gazes at Sheila for a few seconds without responding, then turns and hastens from the room. Sheila gazes after her, flummoxed. She smiles down, brightly, at the child. After a moment or two she turns and follows. She finds Valentine in the hallway, reaching inside the small cupboard that houses the meter, her fingers scrabbling, clumsily, at the screws. Brick dust cascades on to the tiles below.

‘Will he go to the authorities?’ she demands, her voice much tighter and harder now.

‘I can’t … I’m not really in a position to answer that.’

Sheila quickly reaches forward to support the body of the meter as it clanks sideways, now barely still attached to the wall. ‘Careful!’ she warns her.

The folded-up letter drops into Valentine’s hand. She opens it and scans it.

‘They’re going to foreclose on the house,’ she murmurs, glancing up, horrified, holding it out towards Sheila for a second and then snatching it back again to double-check. ‘They sent this thing … God … weeks ago!’

‘You really had no idea?’ Sheila’s suitably appalled by the apparent magnitude of this revelation.

Valentine slowly shakes her head, her eyes glued to the text. ‘Noel has legal control over all of Mum’s assets. He hasn’t …’

She shakes her head again, her voice breaking. ‘That stupid, sneaky, double-crossing little …’

‘I’m incredibly sorry! I honestly thought …’

‘We’re all screwed!’ Valentine covers her face with her hands.

Sheila wants to embrace her — to comfort her — but she’s still supporting the meter. She tries to let go of it and it tilts dramatically to one side revealing the small, secret dug-out that’s hidden behind. She gazes at the neat rows of tiny boxes, astonished.

‘If they take away the house I’ll die,’ Valentine murmurs, half to herself, ‘I’ll just shrivel up and I’ll die. I’ll just …’

She drops a hand to her throat.

‘You won’t die,’ Sheila assures her, ‘you’ll be fine — you’ve still got plenty of options.’

‘What about Mum?’ Valentine gasps, the true horror of the situation gradually unfolding in her mind. ‘And Nessa? What will they do? Where will they go?’

‘I’m sure — if it comes down to the wire — then the council will provide temporary shelter.’

‘Temporary shelter?’ Valentine echoes, as if these two words are the most awful, the most chilling conjunction in the entire human lexicon.

‘You probably need to get in contact with the bank,’ Sheila counsels, ‘keep the lines of communication open. Give them a quick call. Set up a meeting and explain your circumstances. There may still be some wiggle-room …’

Sheila pauses for a second. She can’t quite believe she just used the phrase ‘wiggle-room’.

‘Am I being punished?’ Valentine covers her face again with a shudder. ‘Is God punishing me? Is it my fault? Is it bad karma? Have I been so evil, so disgusting, so bad ?’

‘Of course not!’ Sheila insists.