Nicola Barker - The Yips

‘For fashion!’ Ransom’s suddenly almost indignant on her behalf.

‘ Aw , wise up, Grandad!’ Jen pokes him, fondly, in the belly (which he immediately tightens). ‘And it’s worth bearing in mind,’ she adds, as an afterthought, slightly more serious now, ‘that we’re all little better than prostitutes in the West. Capitalism is our pimp, the banking system our client, consumerism the clap, celebrities our crabs … God — I’m dying for a waz …’

She commences walking (knock-kneed, grabbing clumsily at her catsuit), towards a nearby patch of rough, containing, she notes, delighted, an abundance of willows: the impressively sculptural Salix Viminalis to the centre, banked (on either side), by the startling black, native Salix Nigricans and daringly fronted by the low, purple skirts of Salix Purpurea .

‘Impressive planting!’ Jen yells over her shoulder, pointing. ‘Native species! Very good! Very sensitive …’

Ransom just scowls after her, in silence, critically out-manoeuvred, still holding in his stomach, both eyes red and prickling.

Valentine is standing in the hallway, the heavy receiver to the black Bakelite phone pressed against her ear. She is on hold, waiting to speak to someone at the bank. Nessa is lying prone on the tiles nearby, knickerless, wearing only a vest.

‘I’m swimming!’ she calls, kicking out her feet and paddling with her arms. ‘Look! Swimming!’

‘Where did you put your pants, Nessa?’ Valentine asks, irritated.

‘Swimming!’ Nessa gurgles, making fish faces as she breaststrokes.

‘You need to put on your pants, Nessa!’ Valentine snaps. ‘ Now! D’you hear me?’

Nessa is offended by her sharp tone. She immediately sits up, pulling her feet into her body, linking her arms around her legs, making herself small, compressing herself.

‘Do you remember where you were when you took them off?’

Valentine instantly feels guilty.

Nessa shakes her head. She rests her chin on her knees and stares straight ahead, sullenly.

‘Answer the bloody phone, will you?’ Valentine mutters, slapping at her hip, impatiently. ‘ Please! Before I lose my nerve completely.’

She hears the front gate squeal and turns her head, alarmed.

Noel?

Mum?

A cheerful trill of female voices — the creak of a faulty pram wheel. A child laughs. Two dark shadows appear on the front step, speaking in lightly accented English.

‘You take it all way too literally, Aamilah,’ one of the voices says as the door knocker is gently rapped.

‘She won’t hear that, Hana — way too soft. Knock again.’

‘She will hear it.’

‘She won’t hear it. I barely heard it myself. Let Riya have a go. Riya, lift the knocker and give it a good …’

The door knocker raps again, just once, hollowly.

‘Oh dear, oh dear. Very disappointing, Riya!’

‘Don’t be so mean , Hana — she did her best!’

‘You need to teach her to knock several times in a row. You can’t just knock something once. That isn’t a proper knock.’

‘It’s a sharp rap.’

‘No it isn’t. A sharp rap is like rat-a-tat-tat !’

Brief silence.

‘We should probably knock again.’

‘If we knock it again she’ll think we’re a bunch of lunatics. Bang-bang-bang! Bang-bang-bang! She’ll think we’ve come to arrest her or something.’

Pause.

‘Well she’s obviously not in.’

‘Of course she’s in! She’s agoraphobic, you idiot! She can’t go out. She’s always in.’

Valentine listens to this ongoing conversation standing — glued to the spot — by the aspidistra. She slowly puts down the phone receiver and winces as it produces a deafening ding.

‘ Yaha! What was that?!’

‘What?’

‘A ringing sound!’

‘I didn’t hear anything.’

‘Seriously?!’

‘It’s probably just in your head.’

‘A ringing in my head?!’

‘Yes.’

‘No. I don’t think so, Hana.’

‘It’s hard to hear anything through all this bloody fabric.’

Brief pause.

‘Shall I take a little peek through the letterbox?’

‘No Aamilah!’

‘Why not?’

‘Oh do let’s make banana sago pudding when we get home! I really fancy some banana sago! Or sweet, stuffed plantain … Aamilah! Don’t! ’

Valentine sees the letterbox being slowly pushed open and a pair of lively brown eyes being affixed to the gap.

‘Hana — there’s four hairy cats all staring straight at me and a little girl sitting on the cold tiles without any pants on!’

‘Get away from there, Aamilah. Stop snooping!’

Valentine flattens herself against the wall, hoping she’ll be obscured by the aspidistra, but then cringes with embarrassment as the eyes peer towards her, widen, then quickly withdraw again. The letterbox snaps shut.

‘What?’

Silence.

‘What’s wrong, Milah?’

‘Nothing!’

‘Then why are you pulling that ridiculous face?’

‘I’m not …’( something mumbled ).

‘Speak up, Milah! Stop mumbling!’

‘I’m not pulling a face, Hana, all right?!’

‘Yes you are! You’re rolling your eyes like some kind of mad woman!’

‘I’m not!’

‘Look at Riya! She thinks you’re a freak! Is your Amma behaving like some kind of crazy nutter, Riya?’

Short pause.

‘Ha! See?! She’s nodding!’

Valentine quickly steps forward and yanks the door open. Two women in burqas and a small, plump child dressed entirely in pink are crowded together on the doorstep.

‘I’m so sorry!’ Valentine and one of the women both chorus in conjunction.

‘I was phoning my bank when you started to knock,’ Valentine explains, ‘I was actually stuck on hold so I couldn’t …’

‘My sister is incredibly nosey,’ the second woman pipes up. ‘Please let me apologize on her behalf.’

She holds out her hand.

‘I don’t need you to apologize on my behalf!’ the first woman exclaims. ‘I already apologized myself thank you very much!’

‘It’s just that there was only one caller remaining — I’d almost got through — then you knocked on the door and I didn’t want to jeopardize …’

She reaches out and grasps the second woman’s hand. ‘Hello, I’m Valentine, very pleased to …’

‘Farhana,’ the woman introduces herself, her pretty, mischievous eyes crinkling warmly at their corners, ‘Aamilah’s sister — but please don’t hold that against me.’

‘Farhana!’ Aamilah is scandalized.

‘Valentine’s such a pretty name!’ Farhana pointedly ignores her.

‘Thank you.’ Valentine nods.

‘Were you born on Valentine’s Day?’

‘No. I was actually conceived on Valentine’s Day. My birthday’s in November. The 14th.’

‘Oh.’

‘This is my daughter, Badriya,’ Aamilah pipes up. ‘We were taking her to the People’s Park for a picnic and I suddenly thought, Valentine’s just around the corner …’

‘Hello there,’ Valentine greets the small child, evidently slightly ill at ease, then covers her confusion by calling Nessa to the door.

‘Nessa, come and meet Badra …’ she stutters.

‘Badriya,’ Aamilah repeats.

‘It means “Resembling the full moon”,’ Farhana explains.

‘How lovely!’ Valentine exclaims, smiling down at the round-faced child who stares back at her, stolidly.

‘She’s not confident with other children,’ Farhana murmurs as Nessa clambers past Valentine to apprehend their visitor and Riya (in response) retreats, horrified, into her mother’s skirts, gazing at the genial Nessa with a disapproving scowl. She yanks her mother’s robe and mutters something into its folds.