Nicola Barker - The Yips

Several seconds pass in quizzical silence and then: ‘A very lot of words come out your mouth,’ the woman observes, staring at Sheila’s lips, fixedly, as if they alone might be at fault.

‘In the end I bought these things called Wedgees …’ Sheila reaches into her handbag (refusing to be intimidated) and withdraws her glasses case. She opens it and removes her glasses. She shows the Wedgees to the woman. ‘They’re small and padded … I got them by mail order. They fit snugly on to the end of each arm. Stop the glasses from slipping. I swear I haven’t had a single headache since I first bought them.’

‘A miracle!’ the woman exclaims, dourly.

‘Well they’ve certainly worked for me.’ Sheila shrugs.

The woman — clearly against her better judgement — takes the proffered glasses and inspects the Wedgees. She squeezes them, somewhat aggressively.

‘I do get headaches,’ she finally admits, passing them back, ‘and my son, Israel, gets them worse. He also wears glasses — reads a lot.’

Sheila carefully removes the Wedgees from the arms of her glasses, then indicates towards the woman to pass her pair over. The woman hesitates, grimaces, then takes hers off. Sheila grabs them and gently pushes the Wedgees on to the end of either arm.

‘Give them a try.’ She passes the glasses back to the woman. The woman takes them and puts them on.

‘Shake your head as much as you like,’ Sheila suggests, ‘they’ll stay in place.’

The woman shakes her head.

‘What you call these things again?’ she demands, finally fully engaged.

‘Wedgees. But I’m sure there are other brands …’

The woman shakes her head for a second time.

‘They won’t shift,’ Sheila insists.

‘They ain’t shifting,’ the woman confirms.

‘Told you.’

‘I do suffer from headaches,’ the woman reiterates. ‘I read a lot of contracts, lot of legal papers, letters, newspaper clippings on the computer, that kind of stuff.’

‘So Frida’s more along the lines of light relief, eh?’ Sheila smiles.

‘I been asked to write a book — part autobiography, part self-help bible for bolshy radicals. Publishers want an activist’s version of P.J. O’Rourke’s Holidays in Hell . You ever read that thing?’

‘Yup.’ Sheila nods, enthused.

‘ Huh …’ the woman mutters (plainly unimpressed by the positivity of Sheila’s response). ‘Piece of supercilious right-wing balderdash.’

‘Pretty funny, though.’ Sheila shrugs.

‘People think I’m funny, but I never really see it myself,’ the woman mutters. ‘They say my son is funny, but I never found him funny, neither. He’s weird — real weird — but funny? Nuh -uh.’

‘Perhaps it’s simply your natural candour?’ Sheila suggests.

‘Thing is I’m struggling to get started’ — the woman pointedly ignores Sheila’s insight — ‘can’t tell what to put in and what to leave out. My lover give me this thing for inspiration’ — she holds up the Kahlo book — ‘but it’s all over the place …’

She violently shakes her head again. The glasses stay in situ .

‘Well what kinds of autobiographies do you like?’ Sheila wonders.

‘Never actually read one cover to cover.’

‘Oh.’

‘Never had the luxury,’ the woman confides, ‘always had something way more profitable to do with my time.’

‘ Hmmn . Could seem a little arrogant,’ Sheila gently chides her. ‘I mean to try and write something which you expect other people to read without doing any of the basic groundwork yourself …’

‘Who you calling arrogant?!’ the woman hisses, furious (several diners turn around again).

Sheila bounces back in her seat, her tongue stumbling over an apology, as the woman commences to cackle (evidently delighted by the extremity of Sheila’s reaction).

‘Of course I’m arrogant, Wendy!’ She claps her hands together, gleefully. ‘How else I gonna survive out there? Eh?’

She then shakes her head, perhaps a little more forcefully than is required.

‘You can keep those if you like’ — Sheila indicates towards the Wedgees (refusing to be provoked) — ‘I have a spare pair at home.’

‘I don’t want to keep them.’ The woman scowls, starting to remove her glasses, offended. ‘I can buy my own. I was just trying them out.’

‘I have a second pair at home,’ Sheila persists. ‘I bought them for my mother but she had laser treatment and gave them back.’

‘Well if you put it like that …’ The woman grudgingly accepts the offer, then, after a second’s thought, ‘You can have this in exchange.’

She removes some loose, printed papers from between the pages of her book, closes it and pushes it across the table towards her. ‘It’s a review copy. Not even in the stores yet.’

‘But wasn’t it a gift?’ Sheila automatically resists.

‘Who cares? I’m not even reading the damn thing,’ the woman confesses. ‘Look — I had some work-related papers hidden inside.’ She grins.

‘Why are you hiding them?’ Sheila wonders, intrigued.

‘I’m on a six-month break. A holiday from trouble. I promised faithfully not to get involved in anything.’

‘Promised who?’

‘My man.’ She shrugs. ‘My son.’

‘So what are the papers about?’

‘They’re a “spirited defence” of Responsible Tourism.’ The woman rolls her eyes, drolly.

‘You mean like eco-tourism?’

‘Lord have mercy!’ The woman shudders, theatrically.

‘There’s a problem with eco-tourism?’ Sheila’s bemused.

‘A problem?’ The woman looks astonished at Sheila’s evident naivety on the issue. ‘Okay, in brief’ — she knits her fingers together and leans forward on the table, fixing Sheila with her steely gaze — ‘I think we all accept that global tourism is one of the major threats to cultural and biological diversity in the “third world” right now, if not on the planet as a whole,’ (she doesn’t wait for Sheila to respond), ‘and that transnational organizations are only the tip of a giant iceberg — corrupt governments, airline monopolies, Bretton Woods, a Western culture that hinges on notions of entitlement and excess — they all play their part. But the way I see it, the eco-tourists are just as bad — worse, even. Their dogged pursuit of paradise on earth? Pure hokum! These folk are way more complacent, more dangerous, more downright despicable than the “real” shit-heads by a mile! Why? Because they’re even more deluded. At least the shit-heads know what they want — cold, hard cash, at any price. The eco-tourists think they can fly and gawp and consume with perfectly clean consciences for a few extra dollars and some bogus assurances. But let’s face it … uh …’ The woman grasps for Sheila’s name and then realizes that she doesn’t know it.

‘Sheila,’ Sheila interjects, holding out her hand.

‘Let’s face it, Wendy, they’re just another cog in the same, corrupt system. They’re not helping anyone or changing anything. It’s superficial, not systemic.’

Sheila nods, still holding out her hand.

‘I’m a Deep Ecologist,’ the woman continues, ignoring the hand. ‘You ever hear of Deep Ecology, before, Wendy?’

‘It rings a vague bell,’ Sheila avers.

‘Left Biocentrism? Environmental ethics blended with left-wing causes?’

‘Absolutely …’ Sheila nods.

‘We oppose economic growth, capitalism and consumerism,’ the woman brusquely continues. ‘I’m Victoria,’ she finishes off, ‘Victoria Wilson. Vicki Wilson to my friends.’

‘So how’d you get involved in all this stuff?’

Sheila uses the rejected hand to pick up her coffee cup and take a sip.